


No Such Thing, No Such Thing (The Case of John Watson)

by Salina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A minor OC villain, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Another case, Board Games, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Coffee, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even more about John's past, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I did a lot of research for this story send help, Implied Johnlock, Interior Decorating, John Is So Done, John Needs A Hug, John and Sherlock get closer, John makes a new soldier friend, John-centric, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, PTSD John, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Regret, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock gives compliments, Sherlock needs a hug too, Story within a Story, Stubborn John, Tea, We all need hugs, We learn about Sherlocks past, Whumptober, estranged father, guns and stuff, how do they live with themselves, learning more about John, meeting Harriet, nerf gun wars, so does the cab driver, sometimes I forget people write sad endings, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-10-17 11:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salina/pseuds/Salina
Summary: Sherlock Holmes always had prided himself on his cold, detached demeanor. Not feeling things is what he did best.Naturally, that all went out the window the night his best friend was shot. The night he watched John fall to the ground- with a look... oh that look. The fear, the desperation. It was enough to make Sherlock break, and then some.It was enough to make Sherlock feel. And quite frankly... it disgusted him. Truth be told, though, those next few days he realized something. Something he would never dream could happen.Maybe.. just maybe.. having feelings wasn't so bad.





	1. One Foot in the Dirt

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, and guess what? I'm back with more fanfiction!! Because my life needs some sort of excitement. So quick note, this story isn't hardcore Johnlock, but there are aggressive hints. If you guys really want to see some, I would be more than happy to implement! So pleeeassseee comment! I love reading them, it makes my day so much better!

“Sherlock, it’s two in the morning, can’t this wait for another time?”

“Oh yes, investigating glowing tombstones would be a  _ much _ better idea in broad daylight. Wonderfull suggestion, John.”

“You know what I meant.”

Sherlock crouched down in front of the tombstone, it was faded and worn, the shallow etches of a name and day barely visible to the naked eye. Carefully, he traced a finger across the worn-down engravings. At least thirteen people had come to him within the week, each claiming to have seen lights from within the graveyard. Typically experiencing lucid dreams afterward.

“Well?” John asked, impatiently tapping his foot.

Ignoring his partner, Sherlock leaned forward, quickly running his tongue across the rough stone. 

“Cool cool, now we’re licking. Licking tombstones, in downtown London, at TWO AM!” John exclaimed, throwing his hands above his head.

“It’s the moss,” Sherlock stood up, putting his gloves back on. “Hallucinogenic. Typically grows in wide-open areas but is prone to be overpowered by other plant life. Possesses a luminous quality to it when paired with just the right conditions but doesn’t begin working until a few hours after exposure. Hence why it was causing strange dreams.”

“...And you licked it why?”

“Distinct flavour.”

John narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired man, then sighed, grudgingly following him out of the graveyard.

“Can I ask?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

They chuckled, and John stuffed his hands into his pockets. The air was cold, but not overbearing as the wind had died down hours ago. It was only a little over a week until Christmas, Sherlock hadn’t had a case in days, and his agonizing boredom had finally come to a head. Therefore, he decided to check out something a little less than exciting. 

“So..” John began but was cut off by a buzz from Sherlock's mobile. He raised his eyebrows.

“Whatever you’re thinking- it’s a no, I don’t know them. You can go back to the… flat…” Sherlock trailed off as the read the message to himself.

_ Meet me in the graveyard at 2:24. Come alone.  _

_ -AN _

“Are you sure?”

John’s voice pulled Sherlock from his train of thought.

“Yes,” he shoved his phone into the pocket of his trenchcoat. “I’ll be right back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

John had only been typing at the computer for twenty minutes before he started to doze off. When it came to cases where he didn’t write any notes then and there, he made sure to write everything while it was still fresh in his mind upon getting home. Of course, there was an exception to the rare occasions he passed out before-hand. Or was hospitalized. Or drugged. Or all the above. His head had nearly hit the keyboard when the door swung open. He jerked awake.

“What-? I’m awake.”

“Of course you are.”

Sherlock hung his coat on the top hook of the rack, then trudged over silently to his chair.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

John sighed, closing his laptop.

“You’re upset.”

“And why would you say that?” Sherlock asked.

“You hung up your coat on the top hook, so that means you plan on leaving fairly soon and quickly, as you can pick up and put it on easier. Since you have no cases, you’re most likely going to take a ‘thinking walk’, which only happens when you’re conflicted or unsure. Which, in turn, makes you upset.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, his mouth slightly agape. 

“I’m impressed.”

“You also look royally pissed, but then again that’s a common look for you when you don’t have something to solve.”

Sherlock sank into his chair, sliding down until the armrests were level with his shoulders. 

“Weren’t you going to sleep or something? Seeming you spent the whole time complaining.”

“After I finish typing this out-”

“John, nobody reads your blog.”

“More mine than yours.”

“At least mine contains intelligent thought,” Sherlock snapped, glaring at John.

John stared for a moment, furrowing his brow.

“What’s wrong with you? It’s only been three minutes since your last case and you’re already-”

“This has nothing to do with that! So please, if you don’t mind, I would like to be alone.”

John set his mouth in a hard line, standing up. 

“Well, talk to me when you aren’t acting like a complete git.”

As John left the room, he heard Sherlock call out, “Well then I guess we won’t be speaking for a while!”

“What is his problem?” he muttered under his breath, walking up the stairs. He was used to Sherlock's outbursts, they were fairly common, to be honest, but recently he hadn’t had any until now. Paired with him wandering off alone earlier, it was a definite call to suspicion. 

As John stumbled to his room, he sat down on the bed, pondering. He didn’t want to openly ask Sherlock about it, as all he would do is deny and ask John if he had anything better to do. As John thought more about it, exhaustion won over, and he eventually fell asleep. 

  
  
  



	2. A Light in the Park

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Sherlock groaned, putting his face into his hands.

Exactly four days ago at 2:24 he met a man in the northwest corner of the graveyard. A man of which he’d never met, who wore a black mask and hood. He seemed to be around the same age as John, give or take a few years. He told Sherlock he knew about his past, his history. Of course, he’d heard it all before and every time it was proven to be untrue so naturally, he didn’t believe him.

Then he started telling him things. Things only Sherlock could’ve known, some things even Mycroft was unaware of. Even worse, he finished his spiel with the words,

“Give me what I want and I won’t tell John.”

That’s when he panicked. 

Staying up for days on end, pacing, searching for a way to get out of it. Much to his dismay, he came up empty-handed every time. It was if his thought processes had been clouded, like a thick, sticky fog clinging to the sides of his mind. It nearly drove him insane trying to configure a way of solving it and keeping John out of the loop. He trusted John with his life, but there was no way he would put him in harms way, and for what? A strange man in a mask who just happened to know far too much? Though Sherlock was good at deception, his restless behavior was painfully obvious, which meant that he had to do whatever it took to diminish John’s suspicion. 

“Sherlock?” John asked, peeking around the corner. 

“Mhm?”

John walked in, sitting in the chair opposite from where Sherlock was perched. He crossed his leg and sighed. “Whatever you’re hiding, whatever you're not telling me, I think I deserve to know.”

Of course, sometimes Sherlock wasn’t that good at curbing suspicion either.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes closed. He heard John exhale.

“Yes you do, Sherlock.”

“Mmm, nope.”

Sherlock opened his eyes his in time to see John stand up, but falter just slightly accompanied by a wince. He furrowed his eyebrows. John seemed to catch on to the look.

“It’s... erm...”

“Your leg?”

“Yeah,” John admitted quietly. “I know what you’re going to say, it’s all in your head- get over it-”

“I’m no idiot, John. I know psychosomatic pain is still very real. I’m just concerned because you haven’t complained of it for quite a while until now?”

“It just started up again. I don’t know why- Sherlock? What are you doing?”

Sherlock sprang up from his chair, throwing on his coat while John spoke. He tucked his phone into his pocket. 

“I completely forgot, I agreed to meet a client for tea. Don’t wait up for me John, not with your leg and all.”

“It’s fine, really, I can still go-”

Sherlock cut him off.

“I’m afraid not this time. This client requested a one-on-one, I hope you understand. I shouldn’t be long.” He said as he gave a quick smile. 

“Oh, well alright. I’ll be here then I guess.” John said, frowning. Then without another word, Sherlock left out the door.

~~~~~~~~

“An oil lamp, how… old fashioned.”

Sherlock snickered, standing face to face with the same man as before. Though, this time was different in the sense he had no face covering, revealing a man around thirty-five years old, with a square face and grey stubble popping out across his chin and mouth.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for retro.” 

He bent down, carefully setting the lamp on the grass.

“I must say, Mr. Holmes, I’m honored you came to meet me here. Although, people surely do crazy things to hide their past.” 

“What do you want? Money? Artifacts? I don’t have all night,” Sherlock said impatiently. 

“Oh,” The side of the man's mouth quirked up. “I want something much more valuable than that.”

“What is it then?” Sherlock crossed his arms, glaring. Quite frankly, he was annoyed. Why criminals always had to be so mysterious was beyond him, all he knew was that it wasted time. 

“John Watson.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want John Watson back.”

_ Back?_ Sherlock, still confused, eyed the man carefully. 

“He isn’t here, you told me to come alone, do you remember that?” 

He laughed. 

“You really don’t know John at all, do you?”

Something shifted near the edge of the woods, just out of the reach of the lamp. John stepped into the ring of light.

“Sherlock? What’s going on?” He asked slowly, looking at Sherlock, then to the other man. His face then shifted, from a look of surprise to what could only be described as shock. 

“Randall?” 

Sherlock looked between the two men. He should've known John would follow him. “You know him?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I did. What are you doing here? You were in prison last I heard.”

Randall chuckled dryly. 

“On parole. I have to laugh- my officer really does not look closely at what he drinks. Hello, John.”

With no segue, his face contorted from amusement to a sinister look. It sent chills down Sherlock’s spine. 

“I’m touched you remember me, it’s been so long. I wrote to you, I called you, you never responded to me...” He said, taking a step toward John. 

Sherlock took a step forward, placing himself between the two. 

“The war changed you, you know? You ignored me. I sat alone for months, you never called back! You were my friend!”

Randall now was becoming hysterical. He reached into his coat, pulling out a pistol. 

“That’s why I’m giving you ten seconds to run. Not because I’m nice, but because I  _ love _ a good chase.”

“Run,” John said, stumbling backward. “Move!”

Just like that the two broke into a dead sprint out of the park, behind them Randall counted loudly

“Nine! Eight!”

They turned the corner, running out onto the street. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice there were no cars. 

“Three! Two! One! Ready or not!”

Sherlock looked behind him and saw Randall catching up to them at an almost un-human like speed. Then saw John barely keeping up behind him. That’s when he realized.

_ His leg.  _

A gunshot reverberated through the desolate street. With his ears ringing, and vision off focus, Sherlock saw John fall to the ground, skidding across the pavement. At first, he thought he had only tripped- until he realized what he had just heard. At that moment, a scream exploded from Sherlock’s lungs, louder than he had ever yelled. 

“JOHN!”

…

It all came back at once. Everything. 

He felt the impact of the cement before he realized what had happened. His vision clouded, a muffled buzzing resonated through his ears, then the memories flooded in. Him laying on the ground, the screams, the  _ pain _ . Oh god, the pain. He tried to scream, to let out the emotions, but all that came out was a series of gasps. 

_ Calm down, calm down this is what almost got you killed then,  _ he told himself sternly. 

He wrung his eyes shut. He could hear something, was it yelling? He couldn’t differentiate between what was real and what his brain was bringing back. He also couldn’t breathe properly, which certainly didn’t make matters any better. Was that Sherlock he heard?

_ Open your eyes! _

He forced his eyes open, the first thing he saw was the distant fuzzy lights from the street lamps. Then he saw Sherlock, a gun pointed behind him. He was yelling- no, screaming. At who? 

He situated his arms underneath him, feebly attempting to prop himself up. The pain was much more real now, life fire spreading from his leg across his body. He needed to say something, anything. He almost made it upright.

“Sherlock!”

He felt a foot, heavy, kick him in the square of his back spending him sprawling toward the other. He hit the pavement again, harder this time. Everything went black, but he could still hear voices. His body refused to cooperate, rendering him immobile. Two hands reached under his arms, lifting him up. The pain brought him back, just enough for him to cry out in pain.

“It’s ok, you’re ok,” a voice told him. It was soft, comforting. Was it Sherlock? No, it couldn’t be. 

If he could’ve he would turn around, but the darkness took hold of him again, this time pulling him in completely. 

The last thing he heard was the sirens.

  
  
  
  



	3. Senti-Mentality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We stan a school skipping fan-fiction writer. I have my priorities, and Sherlock just happens to be one of them. 
> 
> I am actually sick though but let's pretend that I'm edgy.

If you would’ve told John Watson that Sherlock Holmes stayed next to his bedside for days on end, never even leaving for a moment- not even to go outside- he would’ve called you insane. 

When he woke up, harsh white light filtered through his eyes while he attempted to open them. He was sore no doubt but compared to the white, icy pain that had shot through his leg earlier, this was absolute heaven. He turned his head over lazily, more than likely groggy from whatever meds he was on. His eyes focused on a dark mass curled up in the chair next to him. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Sherlock?” His throat was scratchy, the words barely making it out in one piece. 

The mass stirred for a moment, then a bed-ridden head poked out from underneath a trench coat. 

“John, glad to see you awake,” Sherlock said, promptly standing up. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit, if I’m being honest,” John chuckled, sitting up slightly. “But Deja Vu more than anything.”

Sherlock nodded his head, looking down. 

“Sorry.”

“What?”

Sherlock looked up, confused. John looked equally so.

“Sorry? That’s… that’s what one is supposed to say in a situation like this, is it not?”

“Not really, I should be thanking you if anything.” John sighed, laying back down on the bed. “I wouldn’t have made it out of there if it weren’t for you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, likely uncertain of what to say to the comment. John continued.

“I gather I’m not best at handling being shot.”

“Who is?”

John nodded his head, yawning. 

“I think you’re due for a few more hours of sleep,” Sherlock noted. “They gave you some pretty heavy medication, probably for your…”

John wasn’t completely sure whether Sherlock had trailed off, or he fell asleep. Either way, he dozed off immediately. 

…

After John had been released to go home, he had promptly fallen asleep upstairs, not bothering to do much. The hospital released him with a leg brace and a pair of crutches, which he hated with a burning passion, and therefore refused to use them. Naturally, that meant he couldn’t move a whole lot, but he was stubborn. When he had finally woken up, he yawned, rubbing his eyes. 

“Good evening, glad to see you’re still alive,” Sherlock said from across the room.

“Evening? Bloody hell- what time is it?”

“Seven Twenty Five, I was almost certain you had passed away in that chair.”

John groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“How long was I asleep?”

“Two and a half days.”

John sat up, now suddenly alert. Two and a half days? How was that even possible? Sherlock read his face, as he walked back to his chair and sat down.

“Two and a half days and I’m still exhausted.”

Sherlock had pulled a book off the shelf and was flipping through pages, not looking up.

“In most cases, too much sleep can easily have the same effect as too little. In yours, however, I believe some other factors were to blame.”

John furrowed his brows, “Other factors?”

“John, can you hand me that pen? It’s right next to your chair.”

John reached over, picking up the fountain pen sitting on the stand. “Sure, but what-”

He cut himself off. He tossed the pen to Sherlock, then sank back down. 

“How?”

“I was too lazy to keep going up and down the stairs, so I brought you down here. I hope you don’t mind.”

With each explanation, John became increasingly more and more confused. 

“Why were you going up and down so much?”

Sherlock closed his book and sighed. John gathered he was trying to avoid whatever he was about to say.

“You were screaming John. A lot. Crying too, thrashing- I thought you were dying at some points if I’m being completely honest.”

John’s ears went pink. Sherlock continued.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson was losing her mind, she was getting about as much sleep as you were, so while you were half-awake I led you down here and you’ve seemed to be doing a lot better. You’re welcome.”

John opened then closed his mouth, trying to come up with something to say. Quite frankly, he was embarrassed. He hadn’t had nightmares in a long time, until now apparently. 

“Oh, I noticed you haven’t been using those crutches, so I dug this out,” 

He withdrew an object from behind the chair, holding it out. His cane. He stared at the object blankly.

“You kept it?”

“Well yes- of course. Handy for hitting people, squashing bugs, and unclogging toi-”

“Right, right I get it,” John chuckled, grabbing the object from Sherlock's hand. “Thanks. You know, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you kept it as a little memento.”

John burst out laughing as Sherlock doubled over and gagged audibly.

“Never,  _ ever _ say that again.”

John laughed again. “So, any new leads on cases I’ve missed?”

“On what?”

John stopped laughing, looking at Sherlock quizzically. 

“You know, cases? The thing your life revolves around?”

“Not really, no.”

“Have you even had a new one since-?”

John decided from Sherlock's expression he hadn’t. 

“You… you’ve been turning them down, haven’t you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “So what if I had? Someone needed to make sure Mrs. Hudson didn’t lose her marbles over the past few days. And make sure you wouldn’t fall out of the bed again.”

“I’m… honored?”

Sherlock hummed, taking out a book again. One of John’s medical books, to be exact. He was about to mention it when he noticed the dark look clouding over his face. 

“What?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I know that look,” John said knowingly. “What is it?”

“Theoretically, if I were to tell you to pack up your stuff and leave, what would you say?”

“Sherlock…”

“That I would rather work alone from now on, and arrange other housing for you, how would you respond to that?”

“Sherlock, stop, you’re scaring me-”

“Maybe even leave you with some extra cash, just to help out-”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed. Sherlock stopped, looking up. John couldn’t hide the fact there were tears in his eyes, and there was no doubt in his mind Sherlock saw them too. 

“Please,” he said, his voice breaking. Sherlock's face softened. 

“I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry John I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean for this to happen!-”

He stood up, putting his hands on his head. 

“-But look at you! You’re hurt, your PTSD is back, you’re miserable because of me and that… that’s not right. It’s not right you deserve better than this and we both know it!

“Oh come now- you know that isn’t true!”

“Yes, it is!” Sherlock yelled, momentarily stopping his pacing. “Contrary to popular belief, I actually don’t enjoy putting people in danger.” 

“And I don’t enjoy being treated like a child, yet here we are!”

“That’s really surprising, considering you’re acting like one!” Sherlock snapped. 

“Really?!” John yelled, going to stand up. Naturally forgetting that he had a wounded leg, he yelped and fell to the ground.

“John-!” 

John laid on the ground quietly, holding himself up with his forearms. He stared at the ground, feeling a mixture of emotions well up as he breathed heavily.

“Hey,” Sherlock said softly. The same voice he used trying to calm John down all those nights ago. 

John looked up and saw him holding out his hand. He considered being stubborn and refusing but realized there was no way he could get up on his own. grudgingly, he accepted the offer. Sherlock gripped his arm and placed another just under his other to pull him up.

“Thanks,” John said quietly, sitting back down. He heard Sherlock sigh heavily.

“The last thing I want is to lose you as my partner, John. I just can’t handle this feeling of guilt about what happened.”

“If it’s any consolation, it was my decision to go out there,” John said smiling weakly. “You tried to stop me.”

Sherlock half smiled, taking his seat. 

“We’re both acting like children, I think.”

John nodded his head, chuckling.

“Yeah, but are you really surprised?”

John and Sherlock sat for hours, talking. Something they hadn’t done virtually ever, besides the times where they were wasted. It was funny, John couldn’t even deny that he enjoyed it. Judging by Sherlock’s attempt to keep the conversation going time after time- he’d have to say he couldn’t either.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think these chapters are getting longer and longer each time I update them, lol. Well, here's to another angsty chapter- but worry not. We can expect some fluff and humour coming up. Comment what you think! I live off of feedback. I hope you all know that when I wrote the part where John yawned, I yawned too. Comment if you yawned.


	4. Bored. Games?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the part with the violin is based off a post by bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr/ 
> 
> All credit for that part goes to them! Their headcanons are honestly really awesome, they're worth checking out 100%.

It… is… THREE IN THE BLOODY MORNING!” John shouted. 

Sherlock, unfazed, raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Already?”

John glared at the man, leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock insisted John and him switch rooms, just until he was recovered enough to go up the stairs easier. Though it was convenient for John, it was inconvenient in the sense Sherlock’s late-night expositions were nearly right outside his door. 

“Artistic genius waits for no one, John, not even to the confines of the universe we call time.” 

“Right. OK, well this time it does- so can you please keep it down?” 

Sherlock sighed heavily and sat his violin down. 

“I’m making no promises,” he said, walking over to his chair. John rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t expect you to. Goodnight.”

He walked back into the room, silently cursing Sherlock’s antics. He sat down on the bed and sighed, knowing he wasn’t falling back asleep anytime soon. 

  
  
  
  


_ The next night... _

  
  
  


John woke with a start. His heart nearly beating out his chest as his dream played over and over in his mind. He rose his hand, shaking and clammy, to his mouth to prevent from crying out. Though, he was certain he already had, as he woke himself up by screaming. He laid in silence, hoping he hadn’t woken up Sherlock. Tears were streaming down his face he noticed as he sat up. He took a deep, shuddering breath, then heard something from the other room.

Within the other room, a soft violin melody began to play, slowly growing louder. John furrowed his brows, then slowly pieced together what was going on. 

…

Sherlock continued to look down at his instrument as he heard the bedroom door open. He expected John to yell, or at least cuss him out. Instead, there was silence.

“Oh, hello John I hope I didn’t disturb you-”

He looked up and saw John, who was visibly upset, but not in the way Sherlock anticipated.

“-John? Are you alright?”

“Ye-yes I’m fine,” he said shakily. He chuckled a bit, obviously trying to play it off. 

“No, you aren’t. What happened?” He said plainly, trying not to sound overly concerned. 

“Thank you,” John said quietly. “For erm… well… you know. Playing when I...”

“No problem,” Sherlock said slowly. “Tonight, this wasn’t like the others, was it?”

“No, no I assume it wasn’t,” John laughed. Sherlock noticed tears were running down his face. “It was… you, and you…” 

He trailed off, placing a hand over his mouth. Something common he did when he cried, Sherlock noticed.

“I died,” Sherlock finished for him. 

“Yes,” John said. 

A sob escaped him, then another, and then another. Sherlock watched helplessly for a moment as John broke down in front of him.

“I’m sorry- sorry I just… I don’t want to see that again. I can’t.  _ You _ can’t.”

Sherlock walked up to him and wrapped his arms carefully around John, who buried his head into the other’s chest. He rubbed his back soothingly, still somewhat unsure of how to help.

“I’m not going anywhere, John. Believe me, I can’t, I’m behind on rent,” he said lightly. 

He eased slightly as John chuckled a little bit. He pulled away, rubbing his eyes. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said firmly. “If… you don’t plan on going back to bed you’re more than welcome to stay out here. I’m likely not going back to sleep either.”

John glanced behind Sherlock to where his chair was. Papers were thrown around, some crumpled up and tossed. 

“You don’t have to, obviously but-”

“That sounds lovely, actually,” John said, clearing his throat. “I would rather not go back to sleep, I think.”

Until dawn, John and Sherlock sat, talking about various things. Somehow they fell upon the subject of John’s childhood, something that was rarely spoken of. Come to think of it, neither of them talked much about their pasts- as if it was some sort of unspoken rule. 

“You were born in Australia? How was I not aware of this?” Sherlock asked. John shrugged.

“Never came up, I s’pose.”

“Can you do an accent?”

“Jesus, Sherlock-”

“Please?”

“I’m not sure if I still can,” John admitted, rubbing his chin. He was quiet for a moment, then said,

“G’day mate, how’s it doing?”

Sherlock stared at John for a second, then couldn’t help but erupt in laughter. A kind of laughter he never dreamed of ever executing.

“Stop it! Stop laughing!” John said, pointing a finger at the hysterical sherlock. 

Sherlock didn't even realize how hard he was laughing until he fell out of his chair, which caused John to start laughing equally as hard. In no time, the two were rolling on the floor. That was until Mrs. Hudson came in.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what has gotten into you, boys? It’s six AM!” She exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. 

Sherlock stopped laughing, realizing who was at the door. He looked quickly at John, who looked confused. 

“Sherlock? I thought you said-”

“Oh dear me!” He said, jumping up. “I apologize, John, I thought it was seven.” He hurriedly nudged Mrs. Hudson out of the room. “My sincerest apologies for the noise, come again!” 

He quickly shut the door, looking breathlessly at John. John raised his eyebrows. 

“She’s been here the whole time, hasn’t she?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”

John propped himself back up in his chair, smiling slightly.

“What are you all smiley about?” Sherlock asked, sitting down. 

“Oh, nothing.”

John yawned, leaning his head back against the chair.

“Thank you for, um, staying up with me. I usually don’t get the privilege.”

Sherlock chuckled, now laying sideways in his chair. He had to admit, he was feeling slightly tired now too.

“I’m up all the time anyway, so it’s nice to have company in the early hours.” He said, yawning now as well. 

Both men engaged in a small amount of conversation before they fell asleep. 

For the first time in a while, John slept the rest of the night soundly. 

_ Later that day… _

“Drink up, you smiled!” Sherlock said, pointing at John. John groaned, taking a sip of alcohol.

For the past hour, John and Sherlock were playing a game where they would write phrases down on paper for each other to say. If either one of them laughed or smiled while saying it, they had to take a swig. The more intoxicated both of them became, the harder it was. John had to admit, Sherlock came up with some interesting expressions.

Sherlock picked up a piece of paper and read, “Somebody please help me, a dingo just ate my baby and it was my last one!”

Instead of Sherlock laughing, John burst out in laughter. Sherlock ended up laughing too. 

“This is terrible! John, I think you need to see your therapist again.”

“Do we both drink now?”

“I could only assume yes.”

After another hour and a half, they were completely wasted. Which, by many people’s standards, was a terrible thing. Especially for them. They somehow ended up playing the game, “Watch Your Mouth!” Where your mouths would be pried open and you’d have to say challenging words. Being drunk while playing this was a challenge in itself.

“Oooaarrelly uns or a arrry a iiiity” Sherlock said. 

“English, mate!”

Sherlock aggressively slurred again.

“Orally?”

“NUU!” Sherlock said, hitting the table next to him. “OAR-RELLY! UNSS!”

“Those aren’t worrrdds!” John complained, throwing his head back. 

Sherlock yelled, but with his mouth pried open it came out more a screech. The door suddenly flew open, revealing Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway. Nobody could’ve prepared her for the sight of a toothy, drooling, drunk Sherlock whipping his head around with wild eyes. Mrs. Hudson yelled, hurrying out of the room.

“Wa er prorom?” Sherlock asked, lazily falling back into the chair.

John crossed his arms. He sat on the floor next to his chair, refusing to sit in it because it was too much work.

“I’m bored, say we do something else?”

Sherlock took the plastic piece out of his mouth. 

“Like... what exactly? Like maybe we can juss tell each other secrets?” 

“Terrible idea… let’s do it,” John said, chuckling. 

“I’ll go firss, I think tha Mycroft can go suck the  _ biggest _ fish in London.”

Sherlock hiccuped, staring straight at the ceiling.

“When I was in high school… I made out with another guy onna dare,” John said. Sherlock gasped quietly. 

“Didya like it?”

John narrowed his eyes as Sherlock, who giggled to himself quietly. 

“Johhnn, why can’t we go out?” Sherlock said suddenly. John groaned.

“Because you’ll fight someone, again.”

“Will not!”

“Will too!”

“I’ll sit onnyou until youl le me go out.” Sherlock said, standing up. 

John crossed his arms at the approaching Sherlock.

“No, you will not!” 

“Whoooopsss,” Sherlock said as he draped himself over John.

“Hrmphh- Sherlock geoff of me!” 

“Lemme go out, JAwnnn!”

“You can’t even walk!”

“Mhm neither can you,” Sherlock retorted. 

John sighed, accepting his fate.

“No.”

“Then here I sit.”

Somehow, amid their drunken shenanigans, both men fell asleep, Sherlock still laying on top of John. Of course, Mrs. Hudson came in and made sure to take plenty of photos- which may or may not have ended up on the internet.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the part with the Dingo made me laugh, really, REALLY hard. Also, the parts where Sherlock was slurring from the game, I physically held out my mouth and tried saying what the card actually said and wrote down what it sounded like. To anyone who can guess what it was, you get +10 brownie points!
> 
> Also, I'm going out with a boy tomorrow! Woo! I totally got him into Sherlock and now he's obsessed just like I am, so I can rant about this stuff to him now. Anyway, like usual, comment! Kudos, tell me what you think! I love hearing from you all, even it's a simple little comment.


	5. It's *Almost* Christmas!

“A little more to the left.”

Sherlock groaned and adjusted the wreath again.

“John, it was just here a minute ago I don’t understand-”

“Stop complaining and just bloody move the thing,” John said. 

Sherlock adjusted the decoration for what he thought could’ve been the millionth time. 

“Perfect.”

Sherlock dramatically threw himself onto the couch and sighed. 

“That’s the rest of the decorations, right?” He asked, next to dreading the answer. John looked around.

“I think so, yeah.”

Sherlock sat up and checked the clock, then looked at John quizzically. 

“Haven’t you got an appointment? With that witch-doctor or what have you,” he said, waving his arm dismissively. 

“My therapist, you mean?”

“Same thing.”

John sighed.

“Yes, I probably should get going,” John said, slowly standing up.

Sherlock watched him carefully.

“By yourself?”

“Sherlock, I’ll be fine. I’m not a child, I can catch a cab,” John said. Sherlock could tell by his tone he was mildly heated, so he eased off. 

“Alright. Just make sure the cab driver doesn’t offer you any pills, would you?”

John chuckled, opening the door.

“I’ll do my best.”

After John left, Sherlock reminisced in the heavy silence that washed over the flat. For so long he avoided the silence he enjoyed that now it seemed alien. He breathed heavily and turned himself upside down on the couch, his feet up on the backrest while his chest and shoulders hung off. He listened intently, making sure John didn’t fall down the stairs. As he stared at the flickering lights of the small Christmas tree they (he) had put up when a sudden thought occurred to him.

_ It was Christmas eve, and he hadn’t bought John a present. _

He flipped himself back over quickly, accidentally falling unto the floor in the process. Unconcerned he looked at the clock across the room. 

_ It was already six o’clock. _

Sherlock hurried to the landing and nearly ripped his trench coat off the hook. If he was lucky at least a few shops would be open, but with his luck, they all would be locked up for the holidays. He ran over all the shops within a half-hour radius, but he was certain they’d be closed. All except for one. He walked over to the curtain, crushing aside the curtain just in time to see John riding away in a cab. Sherlock grinned and then without second thought ran out the door.

…

The door to the pawnshop jingled lightly as Sherlock pushed the door open. It was small, dust covering three-fourths of the store's contents. Objects sat sadly in glass boxes, untouched for tens of years while a brooding wall clock ticked away in the far corner. It was one of the oldest still running shops in London, ran by one of the oldest still-running men. Mr. Dan Harpshire. Sherlock knew for a fact he’d still be in, as he outlived all his friends and family. Anyone who he didn’t already ignore in favor of his shop was long gone. That meant he spent Christmas alone in his old run-down shop. He was a more heavyset man with a soft complexion and big eyes which peered over a set of spectacles just a size too small. He had long grey and balding hair which was flipped over and combed in a failed attempt to preserve what he had left.

“Sherlock Holmes! What brings you here at this time? We close in ten you know?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said absent-mindedly, strolling through the various displays. “I’m looking for a gift.”

“A gift, eh? Who’s the lucky lady?” He chuckled, leaning over the counter. 

“What would you gather a retired army doctor might fancy?” He asked, turning an antique pepper shaker over in his hand. 

“Oh? Oh- right of course. Well, I’m going to need a bit more information than just that”

“John Hamish Watson, a native of Australia, moved to England to begin his studies. Zodiac sign is Leo, has little living family and any who is he refuses to talk of, wounded in action in Afghanistan but was only sent home after becoming deathly ill, has a psychosomatic limp and diagnosed PTSD. Has an older sister, Harriet, heavy drinker and can be considered careless. Of course, they don’t talk which is a good idea considering his addictive personality and-”

“Whoa there,” Harpshire laughed. “Make a deduction, detective. You seem to know more about the fella than he does.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. What does John like? What does he need? He paced around the store, picking up various items. Each easily could’ve been a gift, but there was something more that had to be to it. After about six minutes, Sherlock was setting down a snowglobe when a particular item caught his eye. He picked it up and turned it over, admiring the glimmer if it’s gold exterior. 

“I’ll take it.”

…

John trudged up the stairs, taking great care with each step. He relied heavily on his cane to take the weight off his foot, but on stairs, it was next to impossible to make it up without being in pain. He grimaced, stopping three stairs from the top. 

“Bloody,” he breathed. He debated taking another step when the door to the top of the stairs opened.

“Home already?”

“Short session, don’t know what I expected for it being Christmas eve.”

“Need any help?”

“No, I got it,” John said, taking a step. He did his best to hide the pain.

He made it the rest of the way upstairs and into the apartment when he collapsed into his chair with a great huff. Sherlock sat down opposite him. John looked over to the tree, which sat just to the left of the couch across the room. 

“Did some decorating?” John asked quizzically, noting the extra lights and ornaments.

“Just a little, just thought I’d pass the time somehow.”

John nodded. “It’s nice.”

There was an awkward silence between the two, so John continued.

“So, erm… got any plans for tomorrow?”

Sherlock looked at John, seemingly confused.

“Plans? What for?”

“Jesus- because it’s Christmas? You have a family, do you not see them during the holidays?”

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. “God, no. That would be a total disaster. We prefer to exchange gifts via post.”

John nodded, imagining the levels of chaos that ensued in the Holmes household, especially with extended family. 

“Do you…?”

“Me? Oh, no. Haven’t celebrated formally since well before Afghanistan. Even then it wasn’t really... “

John trailed off awkwardly, not wishing to go into it. Sherlock seemed to catch on, as he didn’t press any further.

“Well, it seems we’ll be enjoying each other’s company for tomorrow then,” Sherlock said. John nodded.

“I guess so.”

Right as John finished speaking, the door into the room opened. Sherlock stood up immediately and John quickly bounced up on one foot. Thankfully, it was only Greg that entered.

“You know, knocking is still in style, even during the season,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Right, sorry about that. Thought I’ve broke in enough times there’s not much of a point in it anymore. John, how’s the leg doing?”

John grimaced internally, feeling all sorts of deja vu at the question. He smiled politely.

“Much better, thanks.”

“Good to hear. Well, thought I’d pop in and say hello, see how things are going. Amazing, it’s almost as if all the serial killers when on holiday,” he chuckled. 

“Seems you’ve been handling yourselves well,” Sherlock said. Greg laughed.

“It’s a Christmas miracle.”

The three exchanged in some quick conversation before Greg decided to head out. As he walked out the door he turned around and wished the two a happy Christmas.

“Have a good one,” John said. 

“Happy Christmas, Greg,” Sherlock said, smiling. Both Greg and John shot him a surprised look.

“Wow, it really is Chrismas,” he said, then left. 

“How-?” John asked as the door closed. 

Sherlock held out his palm, which had the scribbled words “Greg” written across. At that, John couldn’t help but chuckle.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm oddly in the Christmas spirit after writing this and I'm really not sure how I feel about it. Also, I have to conduct and play in my band tomorrow for a pre-competition review a few towns over and I'm REALLY nervous about it. So wish me luck!
> 
> So, what do think Sherlock got John?
> 
> Anyone who answers correctly or near enough will get the option between a shoutout, and being turned into a character for a chapter! (yourself or a character you've created). So comment your best guess!


	6. It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Best of Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had some great guesses, though none of them were correct I would like to give a shoutout to LondonLioness for shooting the idea of the antique instrument! I loved the idea, so I used it as John's gift to Sherlock. All credit goes to them for that

Not too long into the night did the snow start. It was slow at first, flurries of delicate snow falling aimlessly onto the streets of London. As time went by the snow grew larger, more desperate to reach the ground as it became heavier and heavier. John sat next to the window for a while watching the snowfall that eventually built up taller than he'd ever seen. It could’ve been considered a full-blown storm.

“I see you’re watching the storm as well,” Sherlock stood in the doorway.

“Oh, Sherlock, I didn’t see you come in.”

He walked into the room and sat gingerly down on the bed, very unlike him in terms of the heavy silence that accompanied. 

“Everything alright?” John asked, growing concerned. Sherlock set his lips in a straight line and nodded his head.

“Couldn’t sleep, so I assumed you couldn’t either.”

Most times if there was even a lick of an opportunity for alone time, Sherlock would take it. That time typically came at night, but now he sought John's company? He must’ve read John’s confusion, as he stood up.

“I’ll leave you be if you would like-”

“No- no, it’s fine. Really, stay.”

After an unconvinced look from Sherlock, he added a feeble

“Please.”

Sherlock sat back down awkwardly. 

“What’s actually going on with you?” John turned to Sherlock now. “You’re acting a bit, well… not you.”

“Just been in thought recently… me, alone with my mind. A terrible combination.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shot him a look of surprise at the comment. He furrowed his brows.

“What?” John asked.

“Nothing, just, speaking. It’s so counterproductive sometimes, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked, looking out the window distantly. 

“I mean, I don’t think so.” John sighed, pulling his good leg up into the chair. “I think it’s a good way to tell people how you feel, what you think, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock nodded lightly, still seemingly transfixed on the storm outside. 

“Still, using it too much, it takes away it’s value.”

“Did you come in here just to philosophize talking with me? At what? Midnight?”

Sherlock stood up suddenly, just slightly did he grin. He patted John’s shoulder.

“Happy Christmas.”

He stared for a moment, either paralyzed by the suddenness of the kind gesture or the fact it was a kind gesture in general.

“Oh- erm, Happy Christmas to you too.”

“Try your best to get at least some sleep, we will be up at the brink of dawn.”

John tilted his head in confusion.

“Why?”

“Isn’t that what you do at Christmas? Wake up early?”

“That’s what children do, not grown men.”

“See you in the morning!”

He tried to protest against it, but Sherlock was already out the door. He sighed, shaking his head all while laughing a little bit to himself. Though Sherlock was acting a bit differently than usual, it wasn’t bad by any means. If anything, it was a positive change. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more behind the sudden change. He yawned and looked back out the window. Eventually, he managed to meander his way back to the bed and fall asleep.

…

He didn’t know whether it was the smell of the burning toast or the array of banging and crashing that woke him up first. Either way, it was concerning. John swung his legs over the bed, grimacing slightly. He almost kept forgetting about his wounded leg. He was about to stand up when the door swung open, revealing Sherlock standing in the doorway with a platter whilst wearing a smile. Along with a lab coat (his version of an apron) of course.

“Care for some toast?”

“What was all the noise?”

“Care for some toast?” Sherlock repeated. John decided just to not ask again. 

“You know what? Sure.”

Sherlock gingerly placed the platter down on the bedside. There were two plates of toast- burnt to a crisp- only reconciled by a thick slather of jam. Accompanying those were a small tea kettle and cups. 

“Don't think for a moment of telling anyone I actually cooked,” Sherlock said. John chuckled, admiring the ungodly blackness of the toast.

“I don’t think cooked would be the word I’d use.”

The two sat for a while, chatting over breakfast. John sat on the bed while Sherlock situated himself in the chair across the room. While they were talking, the door opened. They saw a quick glimpse of Mycroft before he hurriedly closed the door.

  
“Mycroft, have you  _ ever _ heard of knocking?”

Mycroft opened the door cautiously. He smiled at the two unconvincingly.

“Sorry about that, boys. Thought I was walking in on something.”

“Mycroft...” Sherlock said in a warning tone.

“Well I didn’t know, everyone celebrates Christmas differently nowadays.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked annoyedly. 

“Just thought I’d drop in, see how John’s leg is and bear some gifts, of course,” Mycroft pulled out a bag from behind his back. The only thing John was concerned about was how he didn’t see the bag before. 

“Brother,” he handed Sherlock a small box, wrapped in a silver and gold wrapping. 

“Don’t worry yourself, I have one for you as well,” he said, pulling out another box. 

This one was slightly larger with the same wrapping. John hesitated a moment before accepting the gift. Gifts weren’t something he received often, so naturally, if he was offered one he would become increasingly suspicious.

“Though I’d love to stay,” Mycroft checked his watch, “the parents are waiting. Shame you couldn’t come, brother mine. I’ll try my best to save some bread rolls this time.”

John looked at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock avoided eye contact, maintaining it with Mycroft instead.

“Give Mother and Father my best.”

“Will do, enjoy your Christmas you two.”

“You too,” John said slowly as Mycroft walked out, closing the door behind him. 

There was a moment of silence before he turned to Sherlock, maybe a bit too heated, as Sherlock stood up quickly.

“You skipped your family Christmas? Sherlock, why?”

“Those aren’t much fun, I hardly ever go anyway and-”

“No, there’s something else. Why did you not go? Was it because of me? And bloody- sit down I’m not going to hit you.” 

Sherlock exhaled and sat down on the bed next to him. 

“Yes, I skipped. I wasn’t about to leave you here alone on Christmas, what type of friend would that make me?”

He smiled a bit to himself hearing Sherlock use the word ‘friend’.

“Don’t respond to that it was rhetorical,” Sherlock continued. “John, it was partially my fault for what happened to you and I want to make it right-”

“Sherlock, I really-”

Sherlock held up a hand to silence a very disgruntled John. 

“It’s given me time to reevaluate myself, these past few days. You do a lot more for me than I do for you, and I have no reason for not doing so because these few days have been quite enjoyable with you.” He took a breath. 

“I’m falling off-topic, but what I’m trying to say is I would rather spend this time with you if that makes  _ any _ sort of sense. Endearment isn’t my strong suit.”

“Obviously,” John laughed, wrapping an arm around Sherlock. 

“If you’re going to hug, at least follow through,” Sherlock said, returning the hug with both arms. 

“Thanks, Sherlock. Those words meant a lot.”

“Of course, erm… perhaps the bed isn’t the best place to hug,”

He let go, laughing. 

“Yeah, I don’t think so either. Say, let’s go into the living area. I have something I wanted to give you.”

Sherlock helped John up, and the two made their way into the living area. They both sat in their chairs with gifts wrapped in paper bags sitting in their laps, along with the gifts from Mycroft next to them. He gave Sherlock his gift first.

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” he said as Sherlock started delicately tearing the wrapping paper. “I didn’t know what you would want.”

Sherlock opened the cardboard box, which he knew had a rolled-up piece of cloth inside. He took it out carefully and unrolled it, gasping quietly after seeing what was inside. John’s heart skipped a beat.

“You didn’t…” he said, gazing over the contents. 

“You like it?” He asked, surprised.

“I love it! The wooden handles, not even recently varnished oh my land- I haven’t seen one of these sets since I was last abroad, John, how did you know?”

“Truthfully? I didn’t,” he laughed. “I know a fair deal about medical equipment, so I bought what I knew best.”

“It’s perfect, thank you. Now I can do all my autopsies at home-”

“Uh, I don’t-”

He was cut off as Sherlock tossed him a small box. It caught him completely off guard. 

“Oh?” 

“What? Did you not think I would get you something?”

He turned the box over in his hands a few times, admiring the neat wrapping covering it, and the ribbon that was loosely tied around it, a bow on top. 

“No, I just… I didn’t expect such nice wrapping.”

“It’s nothing really,” Sherlock said.

“No, no it’s nice. I like it.”

He opened the box, being as careful as he could no to rip or tear anything. He typically wasn’t one to be careful with the wrapping but in this case, tearing it would make him feel bad. As John set aside the paper, he noted a small wooden box underneath. He glanced up at Sherlock who seemed just as anxious to see it. He opened it.

“My God…” he whispered. In the box, a golden pocket glimmered back at him. 

“Do- do you not like it? If you don’t, I can take it back and-”

“It’s amazing, I-I just can’t get over...” he turned the watch over in his hand and paused. 

“This is a vintage Rapport-! Sherlock!”

“Well, yes I suppose it is-”

He looked at Sherlock incredulously. 

“Do you know how much these are? Sherlock, how much did you pay for this? Is this  _ gold _ ?!”

“I gather I don’t remember how much,” Sherlock said frowning. “I didn’t pay much attention.”

“These are hundreds of dollars, and for it to be a vintage gold, edition, I can’t even imagine! Why would you have spent so much?”

“Money is a mere object.”

He laughed breathlessly. It was beautiful, the gold casing shimmered like a diamond in the light of the Christmas tree, encasing a crystal clear watch front. It was true he needed one, as his last watch broke during a case. He seemed to be late to everything since it happened. 

“Thank you, Sherlock, this is an amazing gift.”

“It isn’t a problem, thank you for your gift as well.”

They opened Mycroft’s gifts afterward. He had given Sherlock another scarf identical to the blue one he already wore. When he inquired about it, Sherlock revealed Mycroft replaces the same scarf every Christmas while in return Sherlock gives him the same umbrella. He gave John a jumper, which happened to match Sherlock’s scarf. 

“I think your brother is trying to imply something,” he noted, holding it up.

“When isn’t my brother trying to imply something? Come, let’s go wish Mrs. Hudson a Happy Christmas before we forget.”

He laughed.

“Forget Mrs. Hudson? Never.”

After they wished Mrs. Hudson a happy holiday, the two retreated into the living area and watched a couple of Christmas specials after he managed to talk Sherlock out of a Christmas day autopsy.

“Come on, John, people die on Christmas too, you know?”

“I will not let you cut open a body on the dining room table!”

“Why not? You gave me the equipment and I’m not allowed to use it?”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I anticipated you would use it on small animals or something, here at least. You cannot and will not bring a corpse in here!”

“I already have though!”

“ _ When _ ?”

“Last weekend, you were out.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

“I cleaned the table, don’t worry.”

John laughed, which caused Sherlock to shoot him a look of concern.

“You’re laughing. Why?”

“I just,” he said in-between laughs, “never imagined I would be arguing with someone for doing a home autopsy on my table, while watching Charlie Brown, on Christmas.”

Sherlock chuckled a little bit, then eventually started laughing as well.

“Yeah? Yes, I assume that is a bit ridiculous.”

The two laughed for a long while, then watched TV for the remainder of the morning. For a while they tried watching CSI: Miami but you could imagine how terrible that worked out. After a near-miss of Sherlock throwing the remote at the TV, they decided to do something else when John remembered something.

“Oh! I just remembered, under the tree- near the back I have something. Could you grab it?” He asked. 

Sherlock reached under the tree and pulled out a box that had been hidden by the curtain. 

“Are you serious?”

“I thought I might save Mrs. Hudson the trouble and maybe the expenses as well, besides, it’s quieter and can be fun,” John explained, pulling out the two Nerf guns, along with bullets. 

“I’m not a child, John.”

“You’re close enough,” he said, handing Sherlock the toy. “Try it out.”

Sherlock closed one eye and aimed the fake gun at the wall, with one shot he made a perfect bullseye on one of the eyes. 

“See? Much better.”

“Ah, I see how this can be an advantage,” Sherlock said. 

He turned the gun suddenly, shooting it right at John’s head. Before he could react, the sticky bullet hit him square on the forehead. Sherlock laughed.

“I think you forgot that I have two,” John said, pulling out the second gun. “On guard, Holmes.”

“The game is most certainly on, Watson!”

The two began shooting at each other, most of the time dodging each other’s bullets. John crawled behind the couch, shooting at Sherlock from afar.

“No barricades!”

“Yes, barricades!”

“That’s cheating!”

“No, it is not!”

Sherlock rolled across the floor skillfully, shooting at John who still hid behind the couch. He ran to jump on John, who moved out of the way then across the room.

“How on earth are you crawling that fast?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“I was a soldier, you dunce.”

As the two carried on in their mini-war, Mrs. Hudson walked into the room, holding a plate of sugar cookies.

“You two are children,” she laughed, placing the cookies on the table. 

Upon hearing the plate, the two turned their heads. Sherlock was the first to react. 

“They’re mine!”

John yelled, crawling as fast as he could, as his cane was on the other side of the room.

“Share!”

When Sherlock grabbed the entire plate, John collapsed on the floor, groaning in defeat. As he lay on his back, Sherlock placed a single cookie on his chest.

“Merry Christmas, have a cookie.”

“You’re terrible.”

“These cookies certainly aren’t,” Sherlock said, shoving a cookie into his mouth. John laughed.

“I think we’re just a tad childish.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Oh, definitely.”

…

Randall stood outside of the apartment, grinning from his spot near the telephone. He knew for a fact that Sherlock saw him later that night. He made sure of it. Now that he was aware, he could finally set his plan in motion.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes. See you tonight.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I spent all of school writing this, I bring my laptop and just typed it out using asterisks in place of Sherlock's name, "him" instead of John, and a - for Mycroft. So if there's any part where I forgot to take one out, feel free to point it out! I re-read it twice but I could easily have missed it. So, like always, tell me what you think! The next chapter (possibly the last) will be out soon.
> 
> So would you guys like to see more of this story? Or should I cut it off in the next chapter? It's up to you all! Let me know! <3
> 
> Also if you understand the chapter name reference I applaud you.


	7. Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW CHAPTER!!!
> 
> When you see the * skip if you don't want to read about mentions of suicide. When you see the * again, you can continue reading. Stay safe, know your limits, guys! <3

Incredibly, the snow didn’t cease to fall all through the night. TV, newspapers, and radio were all buzzing of the unusual snowfall, young children venturing out with their new sleds and winter coats. Sherlock and John, however, decided to stay inside and sit by the fire. After their mini Nerf war (which Sherlock heavily insisted he won), John’s leg had begun acting up.

“It’s fine,” John said, “it’s nothing.”

Sherlock crossed his arms, unconvinced. 

“I’m sure paired with your shoulder, it’s absolutely nothing.”

“How did you…?” 

“You’ve barely used the arm today, inclement weather obviously triggers flare-ups, outside storm, so easy Lestrade could’ve figured it out.”

John rolled his eyes and sank back into his chair. He hated to admit when Sherlock was right about things like that. From across the room, a phone buzzed on top of the table. John felt his pocket.

“Oh, that’s mine,” he said, going to stand up. 

Before he could, Sherlock already had sprung up and retrieved it.

“I could’ve gotten it,” John grumbled, opening the message. Sherlock smirked.

_ Coming over will be there soon. You have explaining to do. _

_ -Harriet _

“Oh no…” John whispered, rereading the message to ensure he read correctly. “No, no, no not now!”

“What?”

John stood up, slowly making his way over to the window. 

“John, you know I hate not knowing things, what’s going on?”

John ripped open the curtain, feeling his heart drop as a familiar face stepped out of a cab down below.

“She’s already here, Jesus, she knew I’d try running-”

“What?!”

There was a series of knocks at the door, loud. John held his breath staring at the door while Sherlock looked at the other incredulously. 

“I’m going to assume it’s for you,” he said, tilting his head up.

John took a deep breath to prepare himself, then opened the door to reveal no other than his sister, Harriet.

…

Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her. She was older than he envisioned, with dirty blonde hair and strands of grey barely visible. Her age was most visible in her eyes, however. They were a chestnut brown accentuated by a series of fine lines. She looked plenty like John, besides being nearly a foot taller than him. 

“Harriet,” John breathed, looking up at her.

Her eyes were cold at first, then slowly changed into a sort of warmth that spread across her face. 

“Oh, John,” she said wrapping her arms around her younger. 

Sherlock noted John was hesitant to return the hug, but eventually gave in. He was surprised, he expected more of a harsh confrontation rather than a sentimental reunion. 

“Oh, erm, Harriet this is my friend, Sherlock,” he gestured to Sherlock, who stood up. 

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said, kissing her hand. 

“Quite the gentleman you snagged here,” she chuckled. 

“Don’t. You know I’m not-”

She laughed, ruffling his hair. Sherlock bit back a laugh at the sight but remained silent. Her face seemed to change as her hand moved to John’s cheek, caressing it lightly. 

“I was so worried about you, John.”

John looked at Sherlock nervously, then back to his sister. 

“Harriet, please, maybe not now?”

Her face fell. “Not now?  _ Not now?  _ Do you have any idea what you put me through? Does he even know?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows,  _ know what _ ? He wondered silently.

“No, it isn’t-”

“I wrote to you, I texted you, I called you, and you only responded when? Once every couple of months? Does it ever occur to you that I worry? I almost called the police that one time!” She exclaimed. 

John shifted uncomfortably, a trace of sadness in his eyes. A sadness that Sherlock didn’t see often. 

“Should I leave?” Sherlock asked quickly, pointing to the door. “I can, it’s alright-”

“No no, Mr. Holmes, you deserve to hear this. In fact, let’s all sit down. This might take a while.”

…

Sherlock sat silently, processing all the was told. Not as silent as John, who stared at his lap in the chair opposite, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. 

“When I hadn’t heard from him, I assumed the worst,” Harriet said sadly. “The only thing keeping me up to date on John was the blog. I trusted that having a flatmate would help him the most.”

While Harriet spoke, Sherlock couldn’t help but continue to stare at John, who seemed to look off distantly. He couldn’t believe it, he didn’t want to. He had his fair share of deductions, but how could he miss something as large as this? Something as large as the fact John almost took his own life? 

“After John came back, I only regret I didn’t visit sooner,” she said. “I felt like such a horrible sister, but I knew it wasn’t until I finally kicked the addiction could I come, so you wouldn’t have to see me the way I was.”

“You’re not a horrible sister,” John said quietly. “You were just looking out for me. I should’ve returned your messages I don’t know why I never did.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” Harriet said, half smiling. 

The three talked for a while longer before Harriet decided she should go. She apologized for not having gifts, to which Sherlock and John insisted was more than alright. As soon as she left, Sherlock turned to John.

** *** “Why? Why did you not tell me?”

John sighed, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know, feelings aren’t really your area, and I just… didn’t think it was worth mentioning.” His face turned red as he looked down at the ground. 

“Something as serious as debating suicide is worth mentioning, John,” Sherlock said, trying to speak as soft as he could. “I may not be the most heartfelt man, but if anything happened to you like that, nobody could ever convince me to forgive myself.”

John exhaled shakily, obviously trying not to cry. 

“It’s over now though,” he attempted a weak smile. A tear ran out the corner of his eye. “I’d like to think I’m past that most of the time.”

“I think all of the time would be even better, don’t you?” 

John nodded solemnly. Sherlock sighed and pulled John into a hug.

“You can always talk to me, John, you know that,” he said, stroking the back of John’s head. Showing affection was becoming slightly easier for Sherlock, thankfully. 

“I know,” John said. *****

The two pulled away, John attempted a feeble chuckle as he wiped his eyes. 

“I think I’m a smidge emotional, don’t you think?” 

“I do, and I’m jealous,” Sherlock said, trying to make a joke. “John, you spent a large portion of your life holding back each and every single emotion that came through your mind. In the end, it was bound to flood. It happens to us all.”

John smiled at Sherlock.

“Us all?” he repeated. Sherlock hadn’t even realized. 

“Us all,” he said, nodding his head. 

“What an emotional roller coaster for a Christmas, yeah?” John laughed, making his way back to the chair, Sherlock followed behind him.

“Tis’ the season,” he said, smiling. John chuckled.

“Some snowstorm outside,” Joh noted as he lowered himself into the chair “Haven’t seen one like this in ages.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. 

He looked outside, and his chest grew heavy. He hadn’t seen Randall since the night before. He, of course, confided in Lestrade, and Even Mycroft to ensure he and John were safe but there was only so much that could be done under John’s nose. 

“You alright, mate?” John asked, pulling Sherlock out of his trance. 

“What? Oh- oh yes I’m fine.”

“Listen, I’m sorry if I bothered you with all that sentimental junk. I know you don’t like it and-”

“John,” Sherlock said plainly, “You’re my friend. If I didn’t care, or want to help, believe me, I wouldn’t. Faking emotions is a waste of time.”

John went immediately silent, only managing an astounded 

“Oh.”

Sherlock half smiled, looking back out the window. He almost found it funny when John was at a loss for words- mainly because John was the type to always know what to say. The times Sherlock could render him speechless were the moments he cherished. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s light mood was short-lived as a lamp across the street began to flash. 

“John! Quick!- Is that morse?” Sherlock sprang up from his chair, moving so John could see.

“H...e...r….e?” John said, furrowing his brows. 

“Oh no, oh no,” Sherlock whispered, putting his hands on his head. “Quick, we need to run!”

“Sherlock- my leg!” John gasped as Sherlock tried pulling him up. 

Suddenly all the lights cut off, leaving the two in paralyzing darkness. It was completely silent, besides Sherlock’s heavy breathing. He held his breath.

“John?” He asked, feeling around the darkness. Something shifted across the room. 

“John?”

The lights suddenly turned back on, revealing Jonh’s empty chair. He saw Randall first, who stood in the corner of the room. Then he saw John; constrained by Randall who had him in a chokehold with a pistol placed against the side of his head. He couldn’t help but notice a certain look in this eye, something Sherlock rarely saw in people. Pure crazy. 

“This is a surprise, Mr. Holmes! Except... it’s really not,” he chuckled. Underneath his grip John was fighting, to no prevail. 

“John-”

He took a step toward John, which only caused Randall to tighten his grip. John gasped, still trying his hardest to fight against the restraint.

“Take another step and I shoot him,” he growled. 

“Randall, please, we can talk about this-”

“Talk? You really think  _ talking _ is going to help?” He spat. “Sure, alright, let’s talk! Let’s talk about that little girl!”

Sherlock’s heart stopped.

“Don’t,” He said firmly. His hands began shaking ever so slightly.

"Oh yes, that little girl- I hit a sweet spot, haven’t I? Does John know?”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“Really? You’ve known him for how long? And you never thought to tell him about the poor, poor little girl whom you murdered?” 

Sherlock looked quickly at John, whose face fell in confusion. Unable to handle another moment, Sherlock fixated back onto Randall. 

“It was an accident, and you know it,” he said. There was anger welling up inside of him.

“Oh no, not according to that police. It was brutal. There was so much blood… nobody could’ve missed it on your hands.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock was yelling now, his shaking hands curled into fists at his side. He couldn’t ignore the look of horror that washed over John’s face.

“They were right, you were always bound to crack. Who knows how long until John suffers that same fate? You're unstable, Sherlock. Admit it.”

Sherlock inhaled shakily, trying his best to control his emotions. 

“You don’t deserve John.”

“You don’t know what you're talking about!”

“Would John really want to be friends with a murderer?” He asked, smiling ever so slightly. 

“John, what he’s saying- please understand it was an accident! I would never purposefully try to harm anyone, not a child!” Sherlock was pleading now, trying to make John understand what he knew. 

“Sherlock, what is he talking about?”

Sherlock saw as something else washed over John, whether it was understanding or the full knowledge of that he had been told, he couldn’t tell. And it scared him. Oh, it scared him.

“Alright, fun-times over,” Randall readjusted his grip, firmly pressing the barrel against Jonh’s head. 

“Don’t do this, Randall,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand. Randall laughed. 

“You don’t get it.  _ You don't get it! _ If I can’t have John, then by God I’ll make sure you can’t either-”

“Randall, please,” John said softly. “Don’t…”

There was a moment hesitation from Randall, which gave John a perfect opportunity to slip out from his arms. He ducked but immediately fell onto the floor, landing on his back. Nevertheless, he drew his gun, pointing it at Randall.

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” he chuckled. “Remember all the good times we had, Johnny? When we were kids? Do you remember that? You’re my best friend.”

“Don’t call me that,” John whispered. 

Sherlock saw as Randall slowly wrapped his index finger around the trigger of the gun. Without a moment's hesitation, he pointed the gun at Randall’s head and fired.

…

John stared blankly at Randall, lying facedown in the ground of the apartment. Blood soaked the carpet and the walls, enough to nearly make him sick. His childhood best friend, the person before Sherlock he was closest to, dead. 

“John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, dropping the gun at his feet. “I didn’t..”

“No, no it’s ok.” John rubbed his mouth with his free hand, setting the gun down on the carpet. He could hear the sirens now. 

“Here,” Sherlock held out his hand to help John up, which he accepted. 

John, forgetting about his leg nearly toppled over just before he was able to grab Sherlock’s arm. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah- you?”

“I’m fine.”

The two turned as the door was kicked open. Lestrade, followed by a practical army of police officers rushed in all at once. They stopped, all blankly staring at the body. 

“You two alright?” He asked.

Sherlock and John nodded curtly.

While the team cleaned up, John and Sherlock were escorted outside to get some fresh air. They sat on a bench just outside the flat, observing the light snowfall.

“Well, that was…” sherlock said, rubbing his hands together. “Something. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just shaken up. How about you? You just shot a man, after all.”

“Yes, not a very good one, though,” Sherlock replied, grinning. John chuckled at the reference. 

“That’s true.”

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two. Though neither of them said anything, they both seemed to know what the other was thinking. Thankfully for John, Sherlock decided to speak up first.

“So John, about what he said, I erm… I thought you should know,” he looked up, meeting John’s gaze. “It’s true. I killed a child. It was a mistake, a case gone wrong I was aiming for the man holding her kidnapper and- and someone hit me and I missed. It hit her, John. I killed her.” 

Sherlock buried his face in his hands, an act of emotion John had never seen before. Of regret, sorrow over someone else. 

“It was years ago, and it haunts me. I can barely hold a gun without seeing her.” 

John sighed, rubbing Sherlock’s back. 

“Sherlock, you didn’t mean it. It was an accident, caused by whoever hit you. It was a mistake anyone could’ve made.” 

“It cost her life though, John,” Sherlock said sadly, looking up. His eyes were red.

“I know, but there’s nothing that can be done now.”

“How do you deal with it? When you had to… well… you know.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. 

“I’m the wrong person to ask, mate.”

The two laughed, just a little. As they watched the snowfall, everything seemed right with the world, no matter how wrong it was on that cold, snowy Christmas night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya boi got a boyfriend. In this economy? Crazy right?
> 
> Also, he loves Sherlock so I see this as an absolute win


	8. No Such Thing

There was not a shred of doubt in Sherlock and John’s mind that that Christmas was the most interesting they’d experienced. After that night, both stayed up, sitting next to the fire. John knew he wouldn’t sleep well after what he had seen, so he didn’t even bother trying. Sherlock though just never slept in general. So naturally, the two decided to talk into the night.

“Harriet, has she always been that much taller than you?” Sherlock chuckled, taking a sip of tea. 

“I was taller up until year four, then I stopped and she shot up. It was distressing, to say the least.”

“What is it like being short?”

“Excuse me?”

“Being so close to the ground, how do you see anything?”

John rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help and laugh

“I’m not even that short, you know, you’re just ridiculously tall.”

“Am not!” Sherlock shot back. 

“Yes, you are.”

Sherlock laughed and rolled his eyes. There was a moment of silence when suddenly Sherlock said

“So… about Randall. What was the story behind that? I know he went to school with you, a year older, a juvenile delinquent with a past history of robberies… but besides that.”

“In Primary, we were best mates, basically inseparable,” John began. Even up until year thirteen. We enlisted of course, but only I got in- he was rejected for his Schizophrenia-”

“What-?”

“What?” John asked, confused. Sherlock stared at the floor, seemingly astounded.

“He was schizophrenic, how did I not realize? Sorry- sorry continue.”

“Right. Well I went, we mailed for a while but after some time his letters got… strange. He started talking about voices, voices that told him I was doing all these awful things. That I hated him. I eventually stopped replying, then forgot about it for a while. They started throwing away his letters.” 

John frowned, trying to remember the next part. 

“And when you got back?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward. 

“Well… he acted as though nothing happened. At first anyway. That’s when I learned what he had been doing. Robberies, assisted murders, jail, mental hospitals, he had resorted to a life of crime while I bloody fought for us!” 

John huffed, shaking his head in disgust at the recollection.

“I moved away after he attacked me, after everything… it was too much but was for the best, he was too unstable. I tried everything I could to cut ties, but I guess he eventually found me.”

“Wow…” Sherlock said, leaning back. “So you always have attracted the crazies then?"

“Hey."

“No offense.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“That’s about the equivalent if I punched you in the face then said, ‘just kidding’.”

“You’ve done that, remember?”

“I have?”

“No, but the fact you didn’t seem at all surprised worries me greatly.”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Jesus, I was not at all surprised.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“I never thought to ask, how is your leg doing? Any better?”

John set his lips in a straight line and gazed down at the cast on his leg.

“Not great, but not terrible either. It’s healing, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that’s a good sign then?” Sherlock asked. 

“I’d say so. Actually, you know what?” John shifted in the chair, pulling his uninjured leg underneath the other. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this, and well, I don’t know if there will ever be a right time so I guess now is the time. You’ve changed, these past few days. A lot.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, you’re a lot more open for one, you seem to be a lot more… caring too-”

“I’ve always cared, John,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Sorry, continue. I really do need to stop interrupting.”

John chuckled. “I don’t know, it’s a bit difficult to explain. You just seem a lot more…”

“Human,” Sherlock finished. John nodded slowly.

“I’ve surprised myself these past few days, I only solved one case in the midst of all this.”

John tilted his head slightly. “Really? What case?”

“The case of John Watson, of course.”

John laughed.

“What is difficult?”

“The most. I’m still working on it, in fact.”

“What have you deduced so far? Probably the most troubling case you’ve seen, I assume.”

Sherlock smiled, almost fondly in, a way. 

“No such thing, John, no such thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I can either end it here, or would you guys like a little sequel chapter? It's all up to you, so comment if you'd like to see more! :D


	9. Epilogue- The Ghost Soldier Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking place after the events of "No Such Thing, No Such Thing". 
> 
> With John's leg healed, a new case arises for the two as a soldier, battling with PTSD claims sightings of a fallen comrade. Amidst the case, however, a new challenge presents itself in the form of John's past. John, determined not to let the horrors of his childhood hinder the sake of the case, and Sherlock, overwhelmed with unfamiliar feelings, band together in the hopes of bringing the truth to light. The two soon find out, however, that the truth as simple as it is complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well!!! You guys asked and I listened, so here's an epilogue story. This has ended up incredibly long, so I'm splitting it into two parts. Complete with a heaping of fluffy angst to soothe your cold, dead hearts. :) 
> 
> I know mine is.
> 
> I'm having a lot of fun coming up with this storyline, my only regret is I couldn't have made this an entire book lol.

John sat, nervously tapping his fingers on the surface of the examination table. The paper crinkled ever so slightly as he shifted, trying anything to distract himself from the atmosphere. He hated doctors' offices. Sherlock had his hand over his mouth, watching John closely. John turned his head and scowled.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You know. Your deducing stare, it makes me nervous.”

“I don’t think that’s the only thing.”

John frowned, looking down at the floor. 

“Well it certainly doesn’t help,” he said. 

John had always hated doctors, he knew it was the silliest thing considering he was one, but being in the position of the patient was something he could never quite get over. Just the atmosphere of a regular doctor's office made him uneasy. He knew he had to be there, though, if he ever wanted to get his cast off his leg. The door handle jiggled, and a doctor entered the room, staring down at the clipboard he held. 

“Well, Mr. Watson, good news, you can get the cast removed.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. For the past four months, he had to deal with the bulky leg cast, which seemed to cause more discomfort than the wound itself. Considering John didn’t take pain killers, that was pretty extreme. 

“We’ll get in someone else who’s more equipped, just to ease the anxiety,” he said smiling. John turned to Sherlock, who grinned awkwardly.

_ Of course, he told him about my fear,  _ John thought annoyedly.  _ Why wouldn’t he? _

As the doctor left the room, it took everything in John to not stand up and punch Sherlock. 

“Why? Why would you tell him? You know-”

“That he would’ve been better off knowing, rather than assuming your fine with everything because you're a doctor.”

“But don’t you think it’s silly that-”

“I’m sure he understands.”

John huffed, resting his chin on his fist. 

“At least I can get this bloody thing off, I’m sick and tired of it.”

“Does that mean I get my bed back?”

John laughed. “Yes, you can have your bed back. Granted it’s very comfortable, I don’t see why you hardly sleep in it”

Sherlock chuckled. 

“Why sleep and waste time when you can solve cases and read books?”

“Because humans need sleep, you clod.”

“That’s entirely debatable.”

“No, it isn’t actually.”

They stayed there for a while until the doctor finally came in to take off the cast. After all was said and done, John couldn’t have been happier to walk home. 

“I’ll never take walking for granted again,” he chuckled. “That was an utter nightmare.”

“Nightmare? You’re not the one who had to listen to you fall down the stairs every other afternoon.”

John subconsciously rubbed his elbow, which he hit rather hard on his latest excursion down the staircase. Most of the time he came out alright, as it only happened when he was near the bottom. He seemed to get a little too confident in his abilities, trying to go faster down the stairs but ending up tripping. He didn’t think Sherlock had ever heard him.

“When we get back, why don’t I find out what it’s like to hear you fall down the stairs? You’ve got me interested.”

“Hilarious.”

“You brought it up,” he retorted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, I have another case-”

John stopped, staring at Sherlock incredulously. 

“Already? You’ve just solved one before we left!”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. “But in the office, I received another text, and I presume you’ll fancy this one.” 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and handed it to John, who shook his head. 

“I highly doubt I’ll...”

He trailed off as he read the text. He imagined Sherlock’s idiotically satisfied grin next to him.

“So, a retired army lieutenant is being  _ stalked  _ by another soldier who he saw die?”

Sherlock nodded, tucking away his phone. “Swears he tried to strangle him.”

“We are not repeating that bloody hound case again-”

“No- no this isn’t anything like that. In fact, there’s something else to the story.”

John furrowed his brows as they continued to walk toward the flat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, noting the chilly breeze that swept through. 

“What else?”

“The soldier he claims to have seen never enlisted. He isn’t real.”

“Then why is he saying he’s stalking him?”

“That’s what we’re going to figure out,” Sherlock said, smiling. John laughed, knowing very well that Sherlock missed solving the cases more than anything.

“And what do you need me for, exactly?” John asked. 

“You would connect with him better than I ever could, that’s one of your strong points. Connecting with others. He’s paranoid, he barely trusts himself let alone others.”

John smiled slightly. 

“If you’re up to it, of course,” he finished. John laughed. 

“Are you kidding me? I’ve been bored to death and back, where do we start?”

…

“I watched it happen, I had just been shot when he had been as well. He… he was standing there for a moment before he fell. There was so much blood, so much…”

The man, Lieutenant Jason Huy to be exact, buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. John bit his lip and he wrote down notes, trying his best to distract himself from the associated memory. 

“This boy, what was his name?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward. Huy shook his head again.

“Bob, Bob Durant. We all called him Bobby.”

“Did you know him well?”

“I can’t remember… I must’ve. I recognized him so well- the doctors and my father think the PTSD caused me to forget.”

“Now, your father, you haven’t mentioned him before. What is your relationship like?” 

Huy frowned. 

“It wasn’t too good, but through all of this, he and I have grown close through all of this.”

John quickly wrote down a few notes, then asked, 

“What about it wasn’t good?”

“Is this all really necessary?”

Sherlock spoke up. 

“If you want to find out what is really going on, I suggest you answer our questions.”

Huy narrowed his eyes for a moment, which could only be him not being used to given orders. 

“Before I left,” he said, “money was a constant issue. Me and him, we argued about the fact he wasted our money on drinking. I knew with the way he was, there would be no way I could go to university without getting another job or a full-ride. I eventually decided to enlist. He was angry, of course. Before he would take all the money I earned to spend.”

John blinked for a moment, feeling a rush of memories come back. It was uncanny how similar their situations had been. His father, of course, was long, long gone. Sherlock must've noticed, as he looked up and stared at him. John cleared his throat, immediately diverting the attention.

“So after the… incident… things seemed to improve?”

“Oh definitely. He made sure to hire all the best investigators, used all the money he would’ve used on booze for my therapists and treatment.” 

“So he just.. Quit? Cold turkey then?” Sherlock asked. Huy nodded. 

John wrote down a few more notes. 

“So, could you do your best to describe what happened when you thought you saw him?”

“Oh, God… I don’t know…” He said, his face contorted with fear. 

“Just try your best, I understand what it’s like, but we must know this, ok?”

Huy breathed out slowly and smiled. 

“Oh, yes, we do have some things in common, don’t we, Doctor?”

John tried his best to smile at the comment. 

“Well,” he began. “I was on my way home when it happened. I had a therapist appointment, it was dark by the time it ended but I knew I needed some fresh air. I was walking down Devonshire- by a house actually- when in one of the shrubs, it started to shift. This may sound silly, but I saw him… I saw him in the bush- and-and he just stared at me. I screamed I tried running, but-but…” 

“But what?” John asked curiously.

“I fell and hit my head mighty hard too. Because of that, nobody believes me. Says I imagined it. I didn’t though, it was real, he was there!”

As the questioning continued, Huy began to act strange. Looking around nervously, as if he was waiting for something or someone to come out at any moment. Sometimes if John or Sherlock were to be talking, and the other moved he would jump back aggressively. As it continued he became so on edge he wouldn’t even answer their questions, so they were forced to cut it short. As they were in the cab back, they went over all of their findings. 

“Well, that was interesting,” John said, reviewing his notes. “I don’t understand how he thinks he is seeing this kid if he isn’t even real? It can’t be a ghost obviously.”

“Do you think he’s making it up?” Sherlock asked with raised eyebrows. John looked at him sharply.

“Why do you assume I would think that?”

“It sounded like you were-”

“Well, I’m not.”

Suddenly, the cab driver chuckled. Both men turned as he glanced in the rear-view.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“Sorry, boys. It always just gives me a laugh seeing you couples go at it.”

“We’re not a-”

“What is your say in all this?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward slightly. “You are obviously a man of high intelligence.”

At first, John believed Sherlock only said those things as a sarcastic comeback, until he said,

“Ph.D. in Psychology, unused since your graduation in 09’. Shame it went to waste, wouldn’t you say, Ron?”

The can driver slammed on his breaks, whipping back to look at Sherlock.

“How did you know that? And how did you know my name?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged. 

“Lucky guess?”

The man let off the brakes, slowly pulling back into traffic. John glanced at Sherlock, who snickered ever so slightly. John rolled his eyes.

Ron glanced back into the rearview mirror, narrowing his eyes at the two.

“My best bet is this ain’t the supernatural. Either all mental, or someone is going through a lot of trouble to scare this guy outta his wits.”

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his chin. 

“Something we aren’t new to.”

“Why though?” John asked. “Why go through so much trouble to drive a man mad? What could justify that?”

“Revenge. Money. Plenty of things, really,” Ron responded, returning his eyes to the road. 

The car slowed to a halt as it pulled off in front of 221b. The two men got out, but before John could close the door Ron said,

“Good luck with the case! I’ll be sure to follow on the blog, Mr. Watson.”

As they walked inside, John couldn’t help it but grin to himself.

“Did you hear that? He follows my blog!”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, John.”

“Oh, says you.”

“What do you deduce from all of this, then?” Sherlock asked as he held open the door for John. 

“Well,” John said, “The dynamic between him and his father does seem suspicious. Why of all times would he act so kind? Even after the fallout?”

“Did you consider the fact that maybe the father felt compassion for the son after his incident?” Sherlock said. John glared at him with a clenched jaw. 

“Did  _ you _ consider the fact that I am sorely inexperienced with that sort of situation?” He snapped. Sherlock stared for a moment.

“I was just joking,” he said. John sighed. 

“Sorry, sorry.”

Once the two reached the flat, John made his priority to sit down in his chair. As he fell heavily, he subconsciously rubbed the side of his leg.

“You know, John, you really shouldn’t let your heart dictate the head. That seems to be your common mistake,” Sherlock pointed out as he hung up his coat. 

“And you shouldn’t let your head dictate your heart, yet here we are,” John mumbled. 

Sherlock paused, holding up his jacket mid-air. 

“Then it can be assumed we cancel each other out then? A head and a heart?”

John looked up quizzically at Sherlock who resumed putting away his outdoor gear. He half-smiled.

“I suppose when you put it that way, yes.”

Outside the wind howled, a subtle reminder that winter was with them to stay. The snowfall had died down, if not ceased completely since the incident. Only the bitter January air was to blame for the unsavory conditions. John picked his notebook out of his coat jacket, reviewing all he had written down. 

“I think there’s a connection with the incident and the father, it just seems… odd.”

“You’re really hooked on that dad, aren’t you?” Sherlock said, looking at John. John scowled. 

“So what if I am? Is that bad?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as he sat down. 

“John it’s my educated guess that the father has nothing to do with this situation. I could be wrong of course, but when emotion comes into play there’s about a 98% chance it’ll be wrong-”

“What you’re actually saying is that because I have a little bit of a history, my opinions are invalid?”

“I never said that.”

“That’s what you were implying.”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“The father being responsible for this is far too simple, nobody takes the easy route, John, you should know this by now.”

“But what if this one time-?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock snapped. “But it isn’t my fault for once you would like to see justice for what your father did to you, just please don’t drag your personal problems into my line of work.”

There was a heavy silence as John's mind went still. No thoughts, just a dark heaviness that settled like ash. In most cases, John would’ve blown up, screaming, yelling that he was right. But he wasn’t right. Sherlock was. Like always. 

“John I-”

“No,” he said quietly, standing up. “No, you’re right.”

“I am?”

John walked toward the door, throwing on his winter coat and boots, not bothering with anything else.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, standing up as well. John shook his head.

“Just need some fresh air, don’t… don’t wait up on me. Notes are on the end table.”

John left, gently shutting the door behind him. 

…

Sherlock watched out the window as John walked away from the flat, hands in his pockets. It was a moment of deja vu, no doubt, as Sherlock was no stranger to making John angry, upset, whatever you’d like to call it. He was more conflicted than anything else. Any other time he knew it was best to give John space to sort himself out but after what he had recently learned, giving John any time to himself seemed to fill Sherlock to the brim with worry. 

Worry.

_ Worrying, what a strange concept.  _ Sherlock thought to himself as he gazed outside.  _ Concern for the well being of another living or nonliving object, an event or idea even! Fearing the unknown of an event that has yet to occur is such a silly notation- as it changes nothing. Unless…  _

Sherlock soon became conflicted. He trusted John to make his own decisions but clouded by his own emotions it wouldn’t take much to make a wrong one. If he left out after him, John may become even angrier. If he didn’t go, and John decided this one time to make a stupid mistake, it could cost Sherlock dearly. As he pondered some more, the door opened. He turned, thinking it was John.

“Certainly is nippy out there,” Mrs. Hudson chuckled, pushing open the door. “Thought you two might like some tea.”

“Not two, just one,” Sherlock said, turning back to the window disappointedly.

“Oh?” She set the tray down, looking surprised. “And where has John run off to at this time of night? Has he got another date?”

“I almost wish,” Sherlock said forlornly. 

“Oh, now don’t say that!” She patted Sherlock’s shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sure you two will make up, you always do, after all.”

“Yes, well I’m afraid I’ve completely overstepped this time.”

“Then go after him, dear.”

His brows knitted at the comment.

“Go after him?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together. “Oh just like the movies. Mr. Hudson, he used to chase me for miles, quite romantic until he caught me. It was sweet while it lasted though,”

“Wouldn’t that be invading his personal space?” Sherlock said, disregarding her anecdote. “That’s what people like, isn’t it.”

“Sometimes, but other times all a person really wants is someone to show they care,” she said knowingly. Sherlock sprang up at the realization. 

“Mrs. Hudson you brilliant woman!” He exclaimed, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be back shortly!”

“Oh, young love,” she cooed. “How precious.”

…

John leaned over the railing of the bridge, gazing at the frigid water churning beneath him. There was always something about watching the water, entrancing watching it move. It wasn’t alive, but sometimes you can't help but wonder. He sighed, rubbing his hands together briskly. As much as he tried to distance himself from the conversation, his mind continued to wander back like a lost puppy. 

_ Please don’t drag your personal problems into my line of work, _ ran through his head over and over. Maybe he was being silly, maybe everything he thought was based on past traumas, and he was just imagining a scenario he wished could’ve played out. The more he thought about it, the clearer the thought that he wasn’t wanted for the case became. He wasn’t helping any, only hindering. If he wasn’t working with Sherlock though, what would he do with himself? As he continued to fall deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole, fast footsteps sounded behind him. He whipped around, nearly losing his footing.

“John! Get down!” Sherlock yelled, holding out his hands. John stared, confused. 

“Sherlock? What are you-?”

“I said get down!” He yelled, looking almost desperate. That’s when the realization clicked. 

“Sherlock, I’m fine, I’m fine, see?” he said, stepping off the elevated level of the bridge. Sherlock took a step forward.

He noticed Sherlock was breathing heavily.  _ Had he been running? _ He wondered. 

“Are you alright?”

“What?”

“ _ Are you alright _ ?” He repeated louder. 

“I’m- I’m fine, Sherlock, I’m ok, you don’t need to-”

He was cut off as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close to himself. He wanted to resist at first, but the warmth felt too welcoming.

“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he breathed. 

“It’s fine… really.”

Sherlock let go, holding John by his shoulders an arm’s length away

“No. It isn’t. I shouldn’t have been so unsympathetic toward you, especially about that. I had the good fortune of stable parents and others don’t isn’t something they can help.”

John stared wide-eyed, still trying to process the fact he had come after him. Did he really think he was going to jump?  _ Was he going to jump?  _

“I would appreciate it if you said something,” Sherlock said, chuckling. John knocked himself out of his trance-like state. 

“Why? Why did you follow me?” 

Sherlock looked down awkwardly, kicking the ground with his heel. 

“I just, erm, wanted to make sure you were alright. I realize assuming in these situations isn’t ideal, plus I knew I owe you an apology.”

“Well, thank you,” John said slowly. “That was kind of you.”

“Was it? I have such a hard time telling,” he said. John laughed.

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“Hate to break the mood,” Sherlock said suddenly. “But I found where Huy’s father resides if you would care to join me.”

He paused for a moment, then finished with,

“Please." 

John looked around, then nodded his head. 

“I just need my-”

“We have no time to waste,” Sherlock cut him off, handing him his notebook. “I’ll explain on the way there.”

…

“He’s growing more unstable by the day,” Sherlock finished. “Doctors, therapists, nobody can explain his PTSD worsening.”

“He was doing fine for a long while though,” John said. “Why now is he going mad?”

“Prolonged exposure to his triggers,” Sherlock said, flipping through notes. “The problem is that we don’t know all of them. It could be anything, something as simple as a light switch. The possibilities are endless.”

John rubbed his chin, looking out the cab window. 

“It must be something he encounters every day then, or at least most of the days.”

“Exactly.”

“A person perhaps?”

“No, he’s shut himself away completely, nobody has seen him for days.”

“Then how do they know he’s getting worse?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

“They can hear him.”

John looked forward, realizing what he meant. 

“Oh.”

John looked at him quizzically, realizing something

“Wait, you said you didn’t think the father came into play, why question him then?”

“Anyone who Huy mentions could have some information,” he said, bouncing his leg. “And if you think that he’s a person of interest, it couldn’t hurt.”

“So why are we on a time crunch then?”

“The father’s alcoholism is getting worse. With his level of consumption, the liver certainly doesn’t have much time left-”

Sherlock was cut off by the ringing of his cell. He rolled his eyes and answered.

“Yes, Lestrade, what do you need?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows as John could only assume Lestrade spoke. His face contorted into a look of surprise.

“Alright, we’re heading back now then,” 

As he hung up, he tapped on the shoulder of the cab driver. 

“Change of direction, so sorry, St. Mary’s if you please.”

John looked at Sherlock.

“What was-?”

“We were too late, he was just transferred. Complete liver failure.”

John slouched back, staring forward. 

“Listen, John, if you don’t want to take on the case you know it’s alright-”

“No, no it’s fine.”

“You use that word a lot when it isn’t ‘fine’, you know that?” Sherlock noted. He raised his eyebrows.

“You said it, I shouldn’t let my personal life affect your work-”

“-Our work,” Sherlock quickly interjected. “I misspoke. Our work. Sorry- continue,”

John smiled a bit. “Our work. I need to get over it, plain and simple. I can’t let something from so long ago affect what I do now.”

“Well said,” Sherlock smiled. “If it ever becomes too much, though, you can say something.”

“I’ll lightly consider it,” John laughed. “Very, very lightly.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for Halloween, my and the bf are being John and Sherlock (I'm being John) and I basically have my costume ready lol. I look like a dork but I love it, plus I own like several trenchcoats and even have the hat so I think I'm set. 
> 
> I got him obsessed with the show and regret nothing at all.


	10. Epilogue- The Ghost Soldier Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah this epilogue is taking plenty more time than I expected so expect another part after this one! And maybe another... whoops. I'm having fun with this though!

“What do you mean he isn’t awake?”

“So sorry, sir, fell into a coma directly upon arrival,” the nurse responded, flipping through the pages of her clipboard. 

“Hepatic encephalopathy,” John murmured. “Hepatic coma, stage four.”

“What are the chances he’ll be waking up anytime soon?” Sherlock asked, turning to John. 

“It’s anyone’s guess, really,” 

Sherlock groaned, putting his hands on his head. 

“Fantastic, just fantastic.”

“Sherlock, maybe don’t be so insensitive-”

“He is his own reason this happened, I will not be sensitive to someone’s own poor choices,” Sherlock said cooly. “And you shouldn’t be either.”

“Right,” John said, nodding. 

“Thank you for your time,” Sherlock said to the nurse, he then turned to John. “Quickly, we must speak to the mother before she decides to croak too.”

As Sherlock led him away, John couldn’t help but notice the nurse’s shocked expression at Sherlock’s words. He quickly mouthed an “I’m sorry” before Sherlock pulled him out the doors. 

“We need to find out where she lives, I might have found clues based on the position of the cotton on Huy’s wool sweater-”

“What? No, Sherlock we already know,” John said, looking at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock paused.

“We do?”

“Jesus- I wrote down the address, see?” He flashed his notepad to Sherlock, who crossed his arms, pouting like a child. 

“Well, my way was cooler.”

“Yes, but mine is more time-efficient. Think ahead, you always say,” John said, tapping the side of his head with his pen.

“I fear you’re becoming more like me.”

“Heavens no, that’s the last thing we need.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

As the two made their way across town, John noticed the light dusting of snow across the city. Though Sherlock thought nothing of it, John drew a link between the snowfall and the series of events that took place just months before. He stood on the sidewalk, looking around as it began to fall heavier. 

“I’m not crazy, Sherlock, something bad is going to happen,” he said, lightly jogging to catch up. 

“Since when have you been a conspiracist?” Sherlock asked, eyes fixated in front of him. John rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious, I have a bad feeling. The snow is just a coincidence, but the gut feeling-”

“-is your mind playing tricks on itself,” Sherlock finished. 

“Even if it is,” John said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “I still think we should be careful.”

“What brings you to that conclusion?”

I don’t know, but-”

“Then we are safe for the time being,” Sherlock said as he tied his scarf around his neck. John groaned.

“Well at least keep an open mind,” John said. “Anything can happen.”

As the two continued walking, John began to notice his leg growing sore. At first, he tried ignoring it, hoping it would resolve itself on its own. After they made it a few more blocks, however, it just grew worse. Naturally, he didn’t say a word. Sort of.

“So, erm, why didn’t we take a cab again?” He asked. 

“It isn’t that far, besides I think better with fresh air. Why?”

“No reason, just curious.”

“We’re almost there now, anyway.”

They stopped in front of a rather large apartment with two doors sharing a conjoined porch. One side was obviously well kept, freshly painted an alarming shade of yellow and decorated with peonies in pots hanging happily from the ceiling. while the other was nothing more than a sad shell of a fairly nice building. John pulled out the slip of paper he kept in his pocket.

“Uhh, says here apartment B…” He said, glancing at Sherlock. 

“Interesting. Well, go on, knock.”

“What? Why me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John.

“Are you scared?”

“What? No, I just-”

“Then go ahead.”

John trudged to the door, mumbling every curse word under the sun. He knocked on the wooden door, waited thirty seconds, then knocked again. He would’ve expected at least some shuffling within the apartment, but it was dead quiet. Without thinking, he went to jiggle the doorknob. When the knob turned, he looked back uncertainly at Sherlock who nodded, a clear indicator he should go in.

He walked in and was overcame by the putrid scent of must and rank. He covered his nose, making his way deeper into the dark apartment. 

“Why on earth is Sherlock making me do this?” He complained to no one in particular. “He should be in here too-”

He was cut off as he ran into a short end table, to which he thoroughly cussed out before continuing. He almost made it past the couch when a black mass caught his eye.

…

“Body’s been in there for God knows how long,” Lestrade said to the two, reviewing a clipboard list of notes. “Already begun to decompose, a hazmat team will clear it out.”

“After they’re done,  _ then  _ can we search for clues?” Sherlock asked, resembling that or a bartering child. John would’ve laughed, but instead, he stood off to the side, swaying queasily. 

“Uh, is he okay?” Lestrade pointed his pen at the John. 

“He’s fine.”

Lestrade watched on incredulously as John nearly tipped over.

“Are you sure? He looks-”

“Yes, he completely fine,” Sherlock said annoyedly. “Now about the corpse, what do you say the cause of death was?”

“I’m not sure,” Lestrade admitted, crossing his arms. “Nobody could stay in there long enough to check.”

“Oh, John!” Sherlock called out in a sing-song voice. John widened his eyes.

“God, no, don’t make me-”

“Just for a quick second-”

John huffed at Sherlock, who looked on with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. He hated to admit that look worked on him.

“Fine. You’re coming with me, though,” he grumbled. He walked toward the house, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist in the process like an angry mother. 

They both painstakingly reviewed the corpse, Sherlock pointing out the clear indicators of her as a person while John determined the cause of death. Blunt force to the cranium, fracturing it in several spots. Massive brain hemorrhage, which was left untreated. A poorly executed murder, which frustrated Sherlock beyond belief.

“No thought, nothing except a sloppy killing!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “A complete waste of human life-”

“Sherlock-”

“Oh shut up, John, nobody here knew her. The killer was an obvious dunce, or just was begging to be found.” He said, shaking his head. 

“That’s what you always say, isn’t it?” John said. “They require an audience, therefore want to be caught.”

Sherlock stood back straight up from his crouched position next to the body. 

“Even so, at least a little thought should go into it.”

John sighed, rubbing his face. Sherlock knitted his brows. 

“What? Am I boring you?”

“No, but maybe critiquing a killers method at the crime scene isn’t the best thing for your image,” he replied cooly. Sherlock scoffed.

“Who cares about image? It’s a construct based entirely on opinion,” Sherlock said, leading John out.

“Image can cost you cases,” he pointed out. 

“Hasn’t yet.”

“Well, it will.”

After everything was said and done with the scene, the two took a cab back to the flat to review more material and do research until the body was shipped to the mortuary. John silently loomed over the computer while Sherlock paced about the apartment. He had been reading up on the father when Sherlock spoke unnecessarily close to his ear.

“The father, again?”

John gasped, nearly jumping out of his chair. He grabbed his chest.

“Jesus- don’t do that!”

“Why are you still fixated on this man?” Sherlock asked, kneeling next to John. 

“I still have a feeling-”

“Wonderful-”

“Hey,” John said heatedly. “I told you something bad was going to happen earlier, and a woman turned up dead. What more proof do you need?”

“Logic, reasoning, the simple aspects-”

John stared, his mouth agape. His ears went hot. 

“Are you saying that meant nothing then?”

“I’m saying that without anything to back up the occurrence, nothing truly is set in stone. Anywho,” Sherlock stood up, brushing off the dust on his knees. “Hungry?”

“Uh, no,” John said, turning his attention back to the screen. 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes.”

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock noted, crossing his arms. John shut the laptop, staring at the empty space behind it.

“I’m not angry, I’m frustrated,” John said.

“That’s essentially the same thing.”

“So what if it is?”

“John-”

“Why does suddenly everything I say hold no importance? Huh? Tell me that, Sherlock, I’m curious.”

“I never said that-”

John laughed dryly.

“That’s what’s happening, though. And you can’t deny it.”

“John, I appreciate your involvement in this case- truly. I just think that maybe your own personal assumptions might be misled is all.”

“Great, here we go again with this whole personal thing!” John shouted, standing up. “If you don’t want me on the case just say something, why don’t you?!”

“John, please stop yelling-” Sherlock said calmly. 

“Why? Why should I?” John fumed, beginning to pace, Sherlock watched on silently.

“I tried letting it go the first time, Sherlock, I really did- but this just… it’s ridiculous! It’s not like I chose for any of that shit to happen to me!”

“I understand that John, I really do, I’m sorry, just please-”

“It’s like nothing I say matters!” He snapped. He was essentially talking to himself at this point, but he didn’t care anymore. “All because a low-life excuse of a father ruined my childhood? Because there are a few things wrong with me, that I can’t do shit!”

He kicked the wall, with his good foot thankfully. He noticed he was breathing heavily, almost hysterically, but by God, he wasn’t done.

“You go about your daily life not needing me, I don’t even understand why you’re keeping me around! It’s not even now- all the time you forget I’m even there as if I wasn’t even needed yet continue to tell me otherwise, so which is it, Mr. Holmes?” 

“John please-”

“No!” John screamed. “No, you can’t fix this, okay? You can’t fix this situation, you can’t fix me, you just can’t!” 

John buried his face in his hands, backing up against the wall as he was suddenly overcome by a wave of lightheadedness. His breathing hadn’t slowed by any means and if anything got worse. To the point, he couldn’t talk anymore without passing out.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered. It was all he could think of saying between gasps. He felt Sherlock slide down beside him, placing an arm on his shoulder. 

John flinched slightly, adverse to the touch he wasn’t expecting. Sherlock recoiled immediately, then slowly reached for John’s hand instead. He grasped it with his own, squeezing tightly.

“John, John you need to calm down, okay?” He said soothingly. “Just take a second and breath, breathe in with me, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, now hold for a few, now exhale. Alright, keep doing that.”

John took a shuddering breath, now staring at the ceiling. A couple more wild gasps escaped him, but with some more guidance form Sherlock he managed to control it. After a few more rounds of controlled breathing, he managed to catch his breath. He closed his eyes shaking his head ashamedly.

“God, Sherlock I’m so sorry,” he said. He looked at the other and was surprised to see tears pooling in his eyes. He smiled, trying to play it off. 

“Sherlock, no, no don’t cry- I’m sorry-”

“You’re right. I can’t fix this. I can’t fix you. I fear that might be my only regret,” he said sadly. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“I didn’t mean it, I… never expected you to. I don’t know, I’m sorry I freaked out. I guess with the injury and everything lately I’ve been feeling a bit unimportant.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said firmly. “You’ve been the biggest influence on my life to date, without you I’d be off my tits in drugs and God knows what else. I know sometimes I take everything, I’m still trying to adjust to sharing the load. Don’t think that’s a reflection of you, because it’s not.”

John smiled weakly. 

“I think that’s always been my main focus, in life. After I was sent home I sort of lost my sense of purpose. Now, if I even begin to think I’m not doing anything helpful I sort of lose it.”

“Well I can guarantee you, you’re doing a wonderful job.”

“Thank you, Sherlock… that… that means a lot.”

“I try,” Sherlock laughed wiping his face again.

John chuckled, then realized that Sherlock was still holding his hand. Firmly too, as if he was aware of it. Sherlock must’ve seen he noticed, as he pulled away awkwardly.

“Sorry,” John said automatically. He hoped he wasn’t flushed.

“No, no it’s… alright.”

A small buzz came from Sherlock’s phone. He pulled it out, reading the message that popped up on the screen. He smiled.

“Body is in,” he said, springing up. He held out his hand to help John up.

“You best be coming with me,” Sherlock chuckled. John smiled, accepting the hand.

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMMMM love me some angst. I have a problem but if you read this then chances are you do too, so high five!


	11. Epilogue- The Ghost Soldier Pt. 3

“Traumatic blow to the head, he had to have been dead for a few weeks at least,” John noted. Sherlock pulled his legs to his chest, deep in thought. 

“Huy only returned last weekend, what would be the odds she was killed the same day he returned?”

John shrugged, looking out the window, then back to the perched man.

“Do you think he’s the one that killed her?” 

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two, filling the open air. Every since the string of breakdowns from John, Sherlock, in turn, had become unusually quiet as if tiptoeing around what had happened. It was frustrating for John in the sense he felt as though he did something wrong, and that it was his fault Sherlock was being so quiet. He pushed back the intrusive thoughts momentarily to deal with the situation at hand.

“Possibly, in his condition of PTSD, homicidal thoughts or tendencies wouldn’t be too far of a stretch.” 

John bit back his tongue, wanting to retort. Sherlock was right though, and that was what seemed to bother him.

“I’m not saying all cases are like that-” Sherlock said quickly. Surprised, John looked up.

“No, no,” John said. “You’re right. He’s unstable. You’ve got to remember though, his mother lived on the far side of town, a good car ride away while he hasn’t left the apartment in days, maybe weeks.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised now. He perked up ever so slightly, eyes widened. 

“Right, of course- how could I have missed that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John replied, half smiling. Sherlock grinned.

John knew very well he faked the oversight- if he hadn’t he would’ve been restless, unable to cope with the fact he had missed such an obvious detail. John smiled as he realized Sherlock had faked the oversight to give John the opportunity to point it out. For most people that was a sign of pity, but for Sherlock to purposefully take a hit to his own intelligence was something he would hardly ever do. 

“What are you grinning for?” Sherlock asked curiously. 

“No reason.”

“People don’t smile for ‘no reason’, John.”

John chuckled, crossing his leg. 

“Well, maybe they do.”

“In this economy? I don’t think so.”

“What?”

The two burst out laughing at the ridiculous response. John was grateful that the tension was eased, even if it was just a little bit for the time being. As they continued the case, however, the constant dead ends seemed to ruin what little good mood either had been in. Sherlock was of course frustrated with the lack of evidence and logic, and John with the notion he was still correct. Every piece of evidence could easily point toward it, but Sherlock continued turning a blind eye. It nearly infuriated him to the point of bringing it up again, but he didn’t want to risk another meltdown or argument.

“What if the soldier was real? Maybe had a twin or something?” John offered. Sherlock scoffed, flipping back again through the list of soldiers.

“What have I said about twins, John?”

John rolled his eyes, placing his chin on his hand. “It’s never twins.”

“Besides, the work you would have to put in to fake or remove someone being enlisted would require an amount of effort almost nobody would be willing to go through,” Sherlock noted quietly as if telling it to himself. 

“Well… what if his memory was you know, distorted? That does happen sometimes, the truth is too much to handle so the brain compensates by telling a different story.”

Sherlock frowned precariously

“Then why rewrite it with something that bad? What possibly could’ve happened that was worse than seeing his friend be shot?” He finished his sentence quietly, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I don’t know,” John admitted awkwardly. “Maybe he had killed someone, by accident and didn’t want to live with it?”

John knew too well the immense guilt associated with being responsible for one’s death. There was a difference from those taking the lives of the enemy and those responsible for keeping your own men alive. Friends lives in your hands, dying, counting on you to save them. The times when John had failed he could never forgive himself for, no matter how hard he tried. Seeing the faces of them at night, telling you things like “You killed me, you let me die!” and “You could’ve saved me… why didn’t you save me?” It haunted him. 

“John? Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his brows drawn together. John nodded dully.

“Yeah- yeah I’m fine- but how could we, you know, extract the correct memories?” John said hurriedly., his best attempt at diverting the attention away from him. 

Sherlock was silent a moment before suddenly springing up out of his chair- which in turn nearly gave John a proper heart attack.

“Aha! I got it, we must speak to Molly at once, come-”

  
  


Sherlock skipped out of the room like a schoolgirl who just received a flower on Valentine’s day, John following close behind. As soon as they caught a cab, Sherlock began to explain his plan.

“The best way to recreate suppressed memories is to provoke the state the mind was in at the time of the incident,” he said excitedly. “We can’t exactly throw him back into the war, but we can replicate it with a few simple chemicals.”

“And you think he’s going to let us just recreate this?” John asked, confused. “He’ll have a heart attack!”

“Not if it’s controlled.”

“What? Like injections?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, folding his hands under his chin. 

“This is insane,” John whispered as he shook his head.

“Not insanity, John. Genius!”

…

“That could not have gone any worse,” Sherlock mumbled, pressing an ice pack to his lower lip. John nodded, rubbing his bruised elbow

“How did that not work? I thought it through so well!” 

John leaned forward and set his chin on his hand, his elbow leaning on his right knee. The plan had been a total bust. With the drudging help from Lestrade, they released noise grenades throughout Huy’s flat. Once detonated, they rushed in with the intent to question him but instead got a very, very angry man who didn’t care you who were. He lashed out violently, socking Sherlock in his face, then managed to throw John onto the ground. He eventually was able to wrestle him back until the rest of the police came. He rubbed his face with his hands groggily. He hadn’t had sleep in over twenty-four hours, and it showed. 

“What could I have possibly missed?” Sherlock curled up in his armchair. 

“Well, maybe we recreated the wrong thing?” John said with closed eyes. 

“What else could he have possibly- John!”

John gasped and jerked awake. 

“Wha-?   
  


“Shock, what if he was in shock? Oh, it’s perfect!” Sherlock laughed and jumped from his armchair with glee. John groaned, wishing for nothing more than a nap. 

“So we’re going to what? Recreate shock?” 

Sherlock grinned, clapping his hands together. “We might not need to, my friend.”

“Sherlock you’re using terms of endearment again,” John pointed out, Sherlock placed two arms on his shoulders, smiling nearly from ear to ear.

“John! You’re a genius! I could kiss you right now!”

“What?”

Sherlock pulled away, John still in a mild shock from the comment. He ran, throwing his coat on the way toward the door. John pursued after him.

“Now where are we going?”

“Barts!”

“What a surprise,” John mumbled, throwing on his jacket. 

…

“The files are gone? How? They were just here this morning!”

Sherlock leaned over the table, staring at Lestrade in disbelief. With the high from the case long gone, he was becoming frustrated. It seemed with every new lead something had to come up.

“We can’t find them anywhere, nobody even knew they were missing.” Lestrade frowned, shrugging. “Sorry.”

“Who would be so dedicated to hiding the truth?”

“Estranged father,” John mumbled softly.

“What?”

Sherlock turned his attention to John, who merely shrugged it off. “Nothing.”

“We have a team searching right now, but there’s something else we thought we should mention. It’s the father.”

John looked up intently.

“Missing from St. Mary’s last night, disappeared without a trace. Reason to believe he’s affiliated but we don’t know just how, thought it might be up your alley.”

Sherlock exhaled, looking down. 

“Right, we’ll get right on it.”

“Anything else just let us know-”

Sherlock stood up, hurrying Lestrade and the others out of the room. As soon as the door closed, he stood still, silent. 

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” John asked. He stood up now as well, eyeing Sherlock.

“Yes. Fine.”

“Should we-?

“Find him? Already have, homeless network, remember? They knew before Lestrade’s phone rang,” he said shortly. 

John looked out the window briefly, then back at Sherlock. “Well?"

“You go out and talk to Huy, I’ll take on the father.”

“You don’t want me coming along?”

Sherlock turned, his face becoming soft. John sighed, putting on his gloves to go back outside. 

“Alright, any trouble just call, alright?”

“We’ll see.”

“Right. Okay.”

…

“Could you explain what he looked like at all? Even the smallest detail could really helpful,” John asked. Huy pondered a moment.

“He’s just a blur, nothing more nothing less.”

“Height? Hair color?”

“Afraid not.”

John sighed heavily and jotted down some extra notes. After almost an hour of interrogation, they had gotten nowhere.

“You know,” Huy spoke up suddenly, “You’re a lot calmer than that other guy, Sherlock. That man, something about him… not bad- just…”

“He’s the walking persona of war basically,” John chuckled. Huy grinned.

“Yes, but you are so calm. It’s the strangest thing.”

“Yes, well Sherlock always does say I’m the connections guy.” 

“Certainly not a bad thing,” Huy said lightly. Though John hadn’t known Huy for long, he grew to quite like him as a friend. Something rare with clients. Or people in general.

“Erm, sorry again about… you know… tackling you,” John said awkwardly. Huy laughed heartedly. 

“Oh, no worries! It had been a while since I felt on my a-game. Some different stress felt great after all that’s been happening.”

“Different stress? From the whole bouts of the PTSD, you mean?”

Huy nodded, running a hand through his short black hair, distracted in thought. 

“Doctors can’t explain why things like that don’t trigger it. Mental illness is crazy sometimes, I gather.”

“Do you know of any triggers yet?”

“One. And it’s the strangest thing. I don’t know if you picked up on it, but I don’t own any mirrors.”

John looked around in his chair. Sure enough, there wasn’t a reflective surface to be found, no mirrors, no reflecting glass. 

“Mirrors?”

“Silly, right?”

“No, no, not at all,” John said. “You can’t control the triggers, but they do usually mean something. Would you have any idea why a mirror might cause it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

John nodded, making note of it. 

“Well, Jason I think we did make at least some progress. I better head out to make Sherlock Sherlock’s doing well with his side of things. If you think of anything at all, please feel free to call, alright?”

“Yes, I will. Thank you very much Mr. Watson.”

John smiled, shaking Huy’s hand. “Please, call me John.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Sherlock, I don’t think th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to split this chapter up again because I write far too much. One more chapter after this! I feel sad that it's almost over (well, technically is because I already wrote that) but yeah. Kudos and COMMENT PLEASE!!!


	12. Epilogue- The Ghost Soldier Pt. 4

Sherlock was crouched down examining the drainpipe when John found him.

“Sherlock, I don’t think that’s the father."

“Father left before I got there,” Sherlock said, wiping off his pants as he stood. “How did things with Huy go?”

“Good, erm, I found something out actually-”

Sherlock held up a finger, cutting John off as he leaned close to the pipe. A rat scurried out. 

“Continue.”

“One of his triggers is mirrors.”

Sherlock perked up suddenly. “What?”

“Uh… mirrors?”

“Mirrors… mirrors, what is a mirror again?”

“Oh God please tell me you’re joking,” John said, holding back a laugh. Sherlock’s face answered his question.

“You’re really serious?”

“John you know how I function, and if you _DARE_ bring up the solar system again I will end you, do you understand?”

John bit back his laugh again, silently chortling. 

“Do... do,” he said, hardly containing the laughter. “Do you need me to explain the toaster again?”

“That was one time!”

“You got scared when the toast came out!”

“I was in my mind palace! How was I supposed to know those machines shoot out scorched bread at mock nine?!?”

“The literal name is a TOASTER, Sherlock!” John said, now laughing hysterically. 

Sherlock groaned, beginning to pace.

“Why mirrors? Out of all the things?”

“Maybe the kid wore glasses?” John suggested, recovering from his laughing fit. Sherlock shook his head.

“Not enough reflection, so way he could’ve seen himself. No, there had to have been something else so he saw himself clearly. Did he have TVs or computers at his house?”

“I don’t recall if he did-”

Sherlock ran up to him, placing his palms on either side of his face. He began spinning John just as he did another time before.

“Sherlock not this again!”

“You need to remember, John! Close your eyes and think!”

John closed his eyes, putting his faith in Sherlock so not let him fall. He tried imagining the flat, everything inside. When he looked around what did he see? Bits started coming back slowly.

“Well, there was a glass oven door…” He said.

“Good, good, what else?”

“A computer, it was off I think.”

“You think or know? The margin of error, John!”

“Yes, it was.”

“Anything else?” 

“I don’t think so?”

Sherlock halted John abruptly, which John’s body did not agree with as he nearly toppled over sideways. Sherlock caught him as he fell into the other.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, standing John upright. “Forgot that happens.”

“Why does any of that matter?” John said slowly, trying to regain his balance. The world still seemed to spin ever so slightly. 

“All of those surfaces reflect, so whatever he saw had to have been vivid- like a mirror.”

“But nobody brings a mirror to a battlefield.”

“Well, obviously not. But what else? Where else could he have seen himself though? Where?”

John rubbed his eyes groggily. Not only was he exhausted, but felt nauseous and dizzy on top of everything else.

“Maybe he dissociated and saw himself I dunno.”

“Wait, say that again?”

“I dunno?”

Sherlock waved his arms dismissively. “No no, the other thing!”

“Maybe he dissociated?”

Sherlock folded his hands together giddily, looking as though he about to start jumping up and down. 

“Of course! Huy didn’t see that soldier die, he almost saw  _ himself _ die! Hence the mirrors, lack of the other soldier, and the memories of him. Oh, this is brilliant!”

John sat, dumbfounded. 

“That’s why he couldn’t tell us anything about Bobby, there was no Bobby. Wait, but Sherlock?”

“Yes?” 

“Where does the name come from?”

Sherlock Went to answer then stopped, looking seemingly confused. 

“You’re right, there must be something behind that name.”

“I’m sensing foul play with all of this, Sherlock, with the paperwork and whatnot. Someone is trying to keep this a secret.”

“Yes, but who in particular? And for what reason?”

John wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. 

“Maybe let’s talk about it somewhere warmer, yeah?”

…

“I still think that bank statements will help, Sherlock. Find out where the money’s been going?”

Sherlock crossed his legs in his chair deep in thought. John had been essentially talking to himself for the past thirty minutes with hardly any response from his friend. 

“Earth to Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunted, a sign he was at least vaguely listening.

“Well? Anything?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and exhaled deeply. He frowned.

“No.”

He sprung up and began to pace. John had always been reminded of his pacing like a lion in a cage, restless, angry, with a need to release its frustration. Sometimes if John didn’t know any better he would hear him growl.

“Bobby… Bobby, who is Bobby?”

“A made-up name maybe?”

“No, no they wouldn’t just make up a name. It had to be at least somewhat familiar to Huy for him to recognize it. Ah! We need information!”

Sherlock yelled, slamming a fist on the mantle. John rolled his eyes.

“We tried that remember? We got beat up?”

“But we did it incorrectly. If we can even begin to attempt this again we need to do it right,” he groaned, throwing himself back down miserably in the chair.

“Well,” John began. “If it was actually him that got shot, maybe he was in shock then? Low blood pressure from blood loss?”

“Yes!” Sherlock stood up again. 

“I’m highly concerned about the rate your mood has been changing.”

“Oh, who cares about that? We have a fool-proof plan! We will stage a blood drive-”

“Jesus- what if,” John said, “We ask him to recreate this? He wants the truth more than any of us, with some convincing I’m sure he’d agree.”

“Oh, oh well yes I suppose that would work too,” Sherlock said with a look of disappointment. John could only have imagined what the rest of his plan would’ve been. 

…

“I understand your concern, Jason, I really do, but if we want to finalize the case then we’ll need the information,” John said calmly. 

“Do we really need to do it like this?”

“I’m afraid so. On the brighter side of things, you’ll have some clarity finally.”

Huy nodded and opened his mouth to speak when the door opened. The three men turned as a man walked in, looking mildly disheveled, with a wiry, scraggly gray and black beard accenting his wrinkled face. 

“Oh, father I-”

Both John and Sherlock stood up simultaneously. The man’s eyes widened as if debating making a run for it.

“You must be the father,” Sherlock said walking up to him. He held out a hand. “Sherlock [.”

“Willie Huy,” he responded, accepting the handshake. “Erm- thank you for taking care of my son.”

“We tried contacting you, it seems you went off the radar for a while, hm?”

“I’ve never been one for hospitals, they just take your money until you die I always say.”

John studied the man closely. He made his own deduction that he was very money-driven given the comment. He certainly looked the part of a drunk as well. 

“We were just discussing a type of treatment for Jason here,” Sherlock said casually. “Thought you might be interested, to get his memories from the incident back.”

“What- what incident?” He laughed awkwardly. “If you mean from the war then we already know what happened.”

“You can never be too sure, Mr. Huy.”

“This is mad, throwing my son out of his mind to find the information we already have- it’s ludicrous!”

“There’s no need to get heated,” John held up his hands. “Jason was in agreement. It will inevitably help him.”

“No, it will not! You are not to lay a hand on my son!”

Willie stomped up to John, stopping mere inches away from his face. John stayed unwavering, staring the man right in the eye. 

“You think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?”

“Father, don’t do this it’s alright-”

“No, they’re trying to use you, can’t you see? For revenue!” He spat in John’s face. “Disgusts me.”

John pushed back the flooding of the memories from his own past, packing them deep down out of sight. Now wasn’t the time to waver. He inhaled, fighting the urge to punch the man in the face.

“Have anything to say, soldier boy?”

“Mr. Huy, if you do not step back this instant I’m afraid my partner and I will have no other choice but physical force, do I make myself clear?” He said sternly. Willie smirked.

“Or what?”

“Father-”

“You’ve been given a warning.”

“You’re mad!” He said, stepping away from an ever heated John. “All of you!”

“We aren’t the mad ones,” John said. “You have explaining to do,” John said. Sherlock shot him a look, to which he nodded his head.

“Explaining what? What are you talking about?”

“Alcoholic father, cheated on your wife not so long ago right?” Sherlock spoke up. “Abusive tendencies, she was relieved you were gone, may I go on?”

“Shut up!”

“No, there’s more,” John said. “When did you plan on telling him?”

“You’re insane!”

“Would you like me to? I don’t mind.”

The elder Huy’s face grew red in anger. John knew fully he was slightly intoxicated.

“All that money for your drinking, which I could easily smell, that had to come from somewhere,” he said smugly. Sherlock’s mouth dropped. 

“You-you couldn’t have-”

“What? What is he talking about?” Huy said, standing. 

“I think my partner can explain the rest better than I, take a seat, would you? We might be here a while.”

“Jason, that soldier you saw die wasn’t real. I know it seemed real at the time, but you were having an out of body experience,” Sherlock said. “You saw yourself die, hence why mirrors triggered your PTSD. Mr. Huy, here, drunken and enraged his estranged son had come hope needing medical care devised a plan. While you received a pension, he began collecting the money whilst hiring unqualified doctors and therapists, of which worked dirt cheap. To keep the lie going, he began feeding false information, planting Bobby right into your head.”

Jason stared blankly at the wall, Willie shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

“The family dog,” John added.

“The only one who found out was the mother, and she couldn’t know, could she? So with some of the money, you made sure she couldn’t tell a soul. You would be wasted right now if you could, but money’s tight. Too tight, you could only afford a little bit to get you through after hiring that hitman. Who was a poor choice, by the way.”

Sherlock turned to Jason quickly. “He’s been apprehended, no worries.” 

“All to feed your addiction,” John finished. “Are you proud of yourself, Willie?”

“Even went through the trouble of hiding the official paperwork. You couldn’t stay in St. Mary’s too long before they found you out, hm?”

“How- how did you find out all of this?” Willie stuttered. “It was so thought through I-”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock confessed. “John did, I was merely along for the ride. I'm quite good at catching on, though.”

John furrowed his brows at Sherlock, who turned up the corner of his mouth slightly.

“How perfect of a plan can a drunk pull of? It was bound to fall through.”

“I can’t believe this, I- it’s all true, isn’t it? You did this! I thought you cared!” Jason yelled, standing up. Willie stood, backing away.

“Let’s not make any harsh decisions, Jase,” he said. 

Sherlock hit the wall once, which in turn the door opened. Lestrade, along with several others rushed the room.

“Get on the ground!" One of them yelled. John and Sherlock exited the room, waiting outside until the situation was handled officially.

They stood in awkward silence, watching as Willie was dragged out by a rather strong officer. 

“How?” Sherlock spoke up finally above the background noise. “How did you find that all out? And when?”

“Well, during you’re little mind palace sessions I took the liberty of doing my own research, paired with personal experiences in the area,” John replied. “I had a hunch.”

“Even after I shot you down multiple times?”

“Fueled my need to prove you wrong even more,” John chuckled, putting his hands into his pockets. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know, because I know you had all the information.”

“I saw all of it, but I didn’t want to put it together. Especially after making it clear I thought you wrong,” he admitted. John smiled.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve listened, you were, you were right,” he said as if it pained him to utter the words. “I was wrong.”

“Sherlock I-”

“And you get credit for the case. I’ll just say I was working on something separate at the time to make up for what I said.”

“You really don’t need to do that-”

“No, no it’s the least I could do,” he said quickly. “Truly.”

“Well, that’s...nice of you.”

They walked down the street, not bothering to take a cab back to the flat. It was a fairly nice day, light breeze and a soft snowfall. John chuckled suddenly, realizing something.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asked, looking at John strangely. 

“You, this,” John waved his arm for emphasis. “Me being right, it’s all so strange.”

Sherlock stopped, causing John to halt his pace as well. He turned to John, smiling with a type of smile John had seldom seen. It was pure, not sneaky or sarcastic, just an overall genuine smile. His heart faltered.

“What I said before, you really are smarter than you or I give credit.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” John said, laughing.

“I’m serious. You really are brilliant.”

“Where is this all coming from?”

Sherlock sighed and rubbed the back of his head.

“Well, it’s not like I don’t think that all the time, I suppose I just never tell you. And with the way I’ve been acting, I think this time I really do owe you an apology for everything.”

John raised his eyebrows. Usually, when Sherlock said such a thing we wanted something or needed a favour, but this time didn’t feel like that at all. Did he genuinely mean this?

“You don’t believe me,” Sherlock noted. 

“No no,” John said shaking his head. “I just, erm, don’t know what to say. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Just don’t get used to it,” he laughed. “Please.”

John laughed, patting Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Not a problem, mate.”

They continued walking, John inadvertently smiled to himself. He noticed after a few blocks it was growing chillier as the sunset, and he had, unfortunately, forgot a heavy coat this time around. He subconsciously hunched up his shoulders to retain at least some warmth when something was wrapped around his neck.

“What-”

He nearly jumped out of his skin until he realized it was Sherlock, placing his scarf around John. He looked up in surprise, Sherlock walking as though nothing had happened. He chuckled.

“Thanks.”

As they walked back, no more words were spoken between the two. It wasn’t awkward by any means, it was more a comfortable silence of two friends enjoying one another’s company. So in truth, nothing really needed to be said. Like a wise man once said, sometimes speaking too much is counterproductive, and in turn, takes away its value. So it could be said no words spoken is better than any at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> These glowing tombstones are real, by the way! I've seen them first hand- in my hometown in America. The moss is made up of course but I needed something. Sorry for the short chapter, trust me though it'll get better!


End file.
